


Hello, Heart!

by journql



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29009817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/journql/pseuds/journql
Summary: 'This world is cruel, isn't it?' Starting with Docs arrival to Route 66 and going though to Cars 3, Hello Heart details recovery from mental health problems. Sally is a Californian girl who never felt happy. Sheriff is a painter with a gun and anxiety. Doc is.. well, Doc.. Slowly recovering from the crash that broke him, and his narastic personality disorder. Hello Heart shows recovery and acceptance in the small  town of Radiator Springs.
Relationships: Doc and Sheriff, Filmore and Sarge, Just the Route 66 gang, Sally Carrera/Lightning McQueen, Sally Doc and Sheriff
Kudos: 3





	1. For the Healing

**Author's Note:**

> the first part needs a redraft but stick with it because it gets better <3  
> i realise that doc either has a arm sling and crutches and then one second he doesn't the thrill is in the mystery i guess
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> \- PTSD  
> _ P**** Attacks  
> _ Narcissistic Personality Disorder  
> _ Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some face claims:  
> doc hudson - jay robinson  
> sheriff - arthur gosse  
> sally carrera - noora sætre/josephine frida  
> flo - ariana benard  
> monty - hunter schafer

PART 1: FOR THE HEALING

It was a dark and stormy night when I, the Fabulous Hudson Hornet arrived at Route 66. I say that because it was, not at all for the dramatic flair it brings. I had recently had an appointment with my doctor, them, binding my right hand and leg, giving my crutches to walk with, and me, paying, leaving for home and then finding myself lost. Miles away from my house, thirsty and caught in the rain. I might never have stopped at Route 66 if I had passed under any other circumstances but as vulnerable as I was I couldn’t pass down the opportunity of rest.  
I headed towards what I thought might be a bar. The building seemed fairly old with pink and torquiese lights flashing over it. Illuminating that scene and, myself, as I wandered on in.  
Opening the door, I found less people inside then I would have expected. Rather, the bar was outstandingly empty and, as I walked in, six pairs of eyes searched mine. Six pairs scaling over my wounds.  
“Woah man. You ain’t looking too fabulous.” Said the closest of the six. Cuddle size. Flowers adorning his long black hair.  
I knew he was right. The worst things were my crutches, my bound hand but I also had tired eyes, drained skin and bruises covering my face.  
Another voice sounded from behind the bar, “You alright, babe?” The speaker hang behind the bar, dishing out drinks whilst the neon lights glowed upon her dark skin.  
And then there were the people who, I would later come to know of, as Luigi and Guido. They seemed strange to me at first, although, I must admit, great sellers.  
“Do you need tires?” Luigi asked before I had even sat down, “I have a deal. You buy one, you get two for free. Hah! What about it?”  
Too my surprise, a man who I had failed to take much attention of looked up, gave Luigi a small smile and told him too, “Lay off him, boy probably just wants a drink.” Gazing at the man who spoke, I suddenly realised why I had failed to notice him. It was because, unlike the rest of the punters this men seemed to blend into the setting.  
Leaning my crutches against the wall, I clumsily sat down next to him. Turning my chair so that I could outstretch my broken leg and ensure it stayed immobile. I stared at his brown eyes, his ruffled hair and his gun, my god, his gun.  
“What will it be, son of a gun?” He prompted.  
To which I responded, “Whisky, thank you,” And the woman, Flo, turned around and began to get the drink. We waited in silence til’ the drink was pushed towards me and I thanked Flo for a second time, grasping it and sipping at the foam.  
“What do they call you, then?” Sheriff asked, although he was sitting in a chair, he crossed his legs and leaned forward as if to say, ‘I am sitting in this way to inform you of the fact that I am not heterosexual.’ I was unsure if he wanted me to follow suit but if he had he was out of luck because this bitch was on crutches.  
“You don’t know me?” I laughed.  
Sheriff nodded, “I don’t.”  
And me: “I’m the Fabulous Hudson Hornet. Winner of three consecutive piston cups.”  
“What do you do for a living?”  
I frowned. He obviously didn’t know what a piston cup was, “Racing.”  
His response, “Do you, uh, go fast?” Brought everything rushing back. The conversation had been so easy before then as I toyed with a reality different from my own but now, I felt the pain of my crash all over again. I had been going fast that day, brilliantly, Fabolously fast, and then I had crashed my car. It had rolled over, sides caving in, crushing me underneath. The right side of my body was the most obviously damaged, my hand and my leg, but there were the scars and bruises too. Thousands of them.  
It took me a while to realise that I was crying. Hands drawn through my dreadlocked hair. Drink forgotten.  
Flo came back to me. She lay a motherly hand on my shoulder, “Darling,” She said, “Let me take you somewhere so I can fix you up.”  
Sheriff, beside me, shrugged, “Nah, it’s alright, Flo. I can handle this.”  
I hardly heard the next words the two of them said as they broke away from me. Hiding away their words in a whisper and a turned back.  
“You sure?” Flo asked Sheriff.  
Presently, I saw a hit of Sheriff’s shrug, “i look it. He can stay at my house.” Flo sighed. If Sheriff decided that one thing was better for the town than another, he normally remained stubborn on the point.  
“Alright. I’ll bring him some clothes.”  
At that, Sheriff picked up my crutches and came to meet me.  
“Come on, Mr. Fabalous,” he said and helping me up we left the inn.

Sheriff’s house was at the corner of the road. For the most part, it was bland. It was also, however, get ready for it… small. The house consisted of a living room, with a couch and a fridge, a small kitchen, a bathroom and one bedroom.  
For a time, Sheriff speculated the world outside. The thunder as it crackled and tore. Then, ‘Would you like some coffee?” I shock my head, stiffing a yawn.  
Which led to this, “Right, sorry, rookie. I forgot that you would be tired. You can stay here for the night if you want.”  
I nodded. Taking that to mean that I could sleep whether I wanted, I walked into his room and, without asking for approval, lay down on the bed there. Damn you, Doc Hudson. I could lie to myself and say that I did that because I thought that Sheriff had another bed to sleep in but I think, even if I had known the truth, I would have done the same. Sheriff would still have to sleep on the couch, uncomfortable with a thin blanket pulled over him, because I was Doc Hudson and I was as arrogant as ever.

As I was too weak to leave his house, Sheriff let me stay there for a few days. I couldn’t very well amble, crutches and all, back home, nor did anybody offer to drive me home. So I stayed there. Resting my broken legs and my hand. Staying in bed most the time.

It was on the fourth day that my first visitor arrived. Lord daffodils and silver ponies, the man who first stood in front of me looked very much like a humanised strawberry. That was too say that he was donned in an oversized red sweater, with curly blonde hair. Locks falling into his sensitive eyes. He looked out of place here, yet, I reckoned that it wasn’t so much the place as his person in general.  
I knew his name, Sheriff had told me it: Red.  
‘How are you?’ Was the first thing Red signed.  
I shock my head. It wasn’t that I didn’t know sign language but… Shaking my head. Pointing to my hand. (One usually needed two working hands to converse in sign language, see)  
Red shock his head, signing, ‘It’s okay. I can read your lips,’ his hands fell to his pockets, ‘I brought something for you.’ Red pulled out a tiny red flower. How it had not been crushed, I did not know. All I knew was that it made me smile. It seemed to carry happiness in it’s many petals, and then Red was passing it to me. I was holding it. It’s smell washed over me as I held it up.  
“It’s beautiful.” I said.  
Red didn’t reply. Yet, I could see his eyes filling up with tears on the brims. He turned away before he began fully to weep.  
Now alone, Sheriff appeared, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets, “Don’t worry about that.” He ushered me, “Red’s just overly passionate about flowers.” From there the presents came flowing in.  
Filmore, smiling as he passed me a rainbow sweater he had knitted. The words peace out embrodiered on the back, “Peace out, man. Your safe here. There’s a lotta love, you know?” Was his message.  
Then, Luigi and Guido. Luigi passing me a box of baked goods, delightedly pointing to the rows of cookies, “This ones shortbread. This chocolate chip. Ginger, too.” Guido didn’t say much. That didn’t matter, you could tell that they were just as excited. Nodding and smiling. Supporting Luigi to no end.  
Flo was the last one to come. She picked up my clothes, my suit and my, ‘Punks Respect Pronouns,’ t-shirt and washed them for me, before returning. She also gave me a pair of long socks. Because, and this was how she put it, “There’s nothing worse than cold feet, babe!”  
The gifts were lovely, beautiful even. Like me, of course. It was in that way that I had no idea why they had really brought them for me. I thought that it was because I was the Fabalous Hudson Hornet. I was amazing, beautiful, talented… Godly. And I deserved their praise, their gifts. I never thought of giving anything back.  
Til’ that was, two days after Sheriff had seen that I had received the gifts and did nothing, he came to talk to me.  
“Do you know why they brought you those gifts?” He asked.  
I shrugged, not lifting myself out of bed… His bed, “Because I’m the Fabalous Hudson Hornet.”  
Sheriff frowned. Lines of anger illuminated his face, his fist clenched- That scared me. Yet, no violence came from it. He only raised his voice to say, “Rookie. They don’t care about your Fabulous, whatever- They gave you them because they have sympathy for you.” He sighed, “Look, I know your blasted type. You take everything for granted because you think you deserve it. You disregard the feelings of others. You disregard my feelings. That bed your sleeping on, you delinquent, belongs to me. The first day you were here you walked in, placed your crutches down and slept there. I had to curl up on the couch. It itches there and it gives me cramps. You can’t treat everyone else here like you treated me. They’re good people- I love them- and they would want you to show that you care. Can you do that?”  
I stared at him. This all made me uncomfortable so the only thing I could think to say was, “Care? Caring is feeling concern for someone else, their thoughts and their emotions. Everybody deserves to be cared for because nobody is un-important. No matter if their black, white, straight, gay trans, nonbinary, genderfluid, pan, bi, latino, a woman, a man, married, not married…”  
Sheriff cut me off, “Mr. Fabulous, that’s not my question. My question is, do you care? Can you name me one person you’ve ever truly cared about apart from yourself.”  
My body sagged. I leaned against my crutches, closing my eyes for a second, “I-,” I stumbled. Speechless, god damn, and not Fabulous at all.  
Sheriff smiled as though he had won, “That’s what I thought. Show me that you can care for somebody other than yourself or I’ll throw you in jail for being a stupidly narcissistic miscreant delinquent.”  
Half because my broken hand didn’t allow me too and half because I thought it was okay, I wept openly in front of him.

Still, I knew Sheriff was right. I rarely showed that I cared. I mean maybe not ever. But I had too now, because if I didn’t, Sheriff would throw me in jail. Babe wouldn’t hesitate. The first thing I did was to pick myself up, whispering an apology to Sheriff, and go to sleep on the couch. The second was to drink. And the third- God the third, to think. To think about what I could possibly do to thank this town for what they had given me.

SHERIFF  
He looked like Hell sleeping there. And that’s not too overexagrate it. No, the man looked like he had walked through the fires and came out the other side, all red eyed and smelling of whisky. His body was crocked. His hair a mess. Goosebumps trailed down his skin.  
I fixed his jacket so that it would give him more warmth, “Good morning, rookie,” I whispered.  
It happened in a fluster. The once calmly sleeping Doc sprung awake and took hold of my hand. With the other, he drew out a wad of money and clasped it to his chest.  
My hands went to my gun. Shaky breaths helped me regain my vision and, when I saw clearly again, the view simply made me laugh.  
“Take the money,” Doc was saying. His voice low, smelling of whisky, but a little more steady than I would have expected, “Please. Split it up with the rest of the town.”  
Slowly, stopping laughing, I bent down, closed his hands around the money and whispered, “No.”  
Doc shock his head, “No?”  
“Listen, you delinquent, I think you’ve paid your way out of every uncomfortable scenario in the past. That’s not happening here. Not now. The people in this town don’t want your money. It’s not going to show them that you care. They want small acts of kindness and charity. We, all of us, have learnt to value them.”  
Doc stared up at me as if for a second he didn’t know what I was talking about. Then, as it dawned on him, he stowed the money away.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.  
Me: “It’s okay. Think of something else.”

DOC  
And I tried. I made a list, scrunched it up, wrote another. I tried and I tried and I tried. Wracking my brain for anything, til’….

SHERIFF  
I woke up to the sound of clattering dishes. Things falling over and spilling.  
I got out of bed quickly, throwing on a white shirt and grabbing my gun.  
Outside, there Doc stood. Turning, to look at me guiltily, with a spray of cupcake batter all over his elegant cheeks.  
“Your making cupcakes?” I asked.  
Doc nodded.  
Or was he making a mess?  
Cups and pans were tipped over. Flour covered the bench. Right now, Doc was scooping batter into it’s moulds but, well, when I say into?  
“That’s it, Rookie,” I said, “You’ve missed the tray.”  
Doc frowned. Looking down at his work, he hung his head back and laughed.  
His laugh is like honey. Like god damn, honey. Rough, warm and sweat. It would stick in my mind for days.  
And then he did something even more expected. I watched as he turned his back, blushing, “I’m not very good at this, am I?” He admitted. I was happy for him. I knew those words wouldn’t have been easy to say.  
“No your not,” I replied, “But not everybody can be good at everything. Come on. Would you like me to help you?”  
Once again, Doc nodded. He let me place my hand on his. Together, we guided the spoon carefully and… Bullseye! The batter landed where it was supposed to. A few more and Doc had gotten the hang of it.  
He bent down and placed the cupcakes into the oven.  
I hang back as we waited for them to cook. My hands were in my pocket and my back half turned when I asked him, “Who are you doing this for?”  
Doc mumbled an answer I could barely comprehend. Then, “Luigi and Guido. I think- I think they like cupcakes.”  
I didn’t bother to hide my reaction then. I smiled. Wide, “That ain’t half bad for one rookie deliquent.”  
Doc’s laughter let me know how much the compliment meant to him but I didn’t press him. Because I knew how hard this all would have been for him. Right now, he deserved to be happy.

DOC  
Taking the cupcakes out, I waited for a while until Sheriff helped me place them in a sexy looking box with yellow and blue tissue paper, “They're favourite colours,” Sheriff winked, and walked over to give them to them.  
The Casa Della Tires looked almost as good as I did with it’s overhanging fairy lights, pale cream and light blue exterior and leaning tower of tires. I found Guido fixing the tower at the entrance.  
They were small, near half my size. A small knitted beanie was positioned over curly blonde locks of hair. A blue dress decorated their form.  
“Ciao!” They said, moving closer, they gave me two air kisses on the cheek. Being well travelled, I knew that was a normal Italian greeting. I also knew that, in certain areas, it was used to solely to greet members of one person’s family.  
I knew enough Italian to point to the Casa Della tires and say, “E bellissimo,” Guido looked up at me. They smiled fondly. Yet, I did not, however, know enough Italian to say, ‘I brought you cookies,’ so instead I asked, “Luigi?”  
“Lui è a casa. Sta cuocendo una torta ma è frustrato perché la uova non si spezzano bene,” Guido responded. I didn’t know too many of the words they spoke but I did know some. Luigi was inside.  
“Grazie,” I said before turning to find him.  
Walking in, Luigi turned to me suprised. He launched such a decree of Italin curses that I stumbled back. God damn it, Mr. Fabalous, you forgot to knock.  
“Sorry,” he said, fixing himself, “Suprised me.”  
I approached, “I- I baked cupcakes for you,” I said, “Well, for you and Guido, but I don’t speak enough Italian to tell them that….” Before I could go off on a rant about how people should learn languages because it opens up the ability to communicate with like minded people all across the globe, Luigi gasped, “Cupcakes!”  
“Yes,” I said, passing them over.  
“Grazie grazie,” Luigi said. Giving me two similar air kisses to the ones Guido had given me minutes ago.  
Not knowing what else I could do or say I left without another word.

Guido and Luigi were the first people I visited. They were nowhere near the last. I tackled one a day because, too be honest, it took a lot of energy to remember who I needed to be, what I needed to do. Still, little by little, I felt my heart opening up.  
Second: Red.

Red’s flowers were, well, beautiful. Roses sprung up from the flower’s beds with petals opening like the lips of a lover. They were like me. Beautiful. No, not like me. They were beautiful in their own way. That didn’t have to have anything to do with me.  
“They’re beautiful,” I signed. A rouge blush rose into Red’s cheeks. He buried his curly head between the folds of his knitted red sweater.  
“Thank you,” He signed back, “You look better.”  
I flashed him a performer’s smile.  
With a little less effort then it had taken the first few times, I remembered what Sheriff had said. What he wanted me to do, “I’m here to see if you need any help.”  
Red blushed harder. He almost looked like the was going to cry, bless him.  
Him: “Are you sure?”  
Me: “Yes.”  
Smiling wide, he walked over and picked up a store brought plant, still in it’s casing, and passed it over to me.  
“I was gong to plant this today.” He signed, “You can help with that.”  
I nodded, signing, “Where do you want it?”  
Clumisly, he pointed to a little spot on the garden patch.  
Tying my hair back into a bun which I tightened using a hair tie on my wrist, I knelt down. My hands met the ground. Reaching. Reaching. And stopped.  
I turned up to Red. An expression of my face of readable disdain.  
“Can I have some help?” I asked. It was still painful: that admissal. Yet, I could admit that it did not hurt as much as it had the first time or even the second.  
Red knelt down beside me. He held another plant in his hand. Tenderly, he dug a hole in the earth. I followed suit. He placed the plant into that whole. I did the same with mine. Then it was just filling it up with dirt again. Enough, Red inscructed, that it would stay tall.  
I stood up. There was dirt on my smooth hands and all over my clothes. The hole I had dug my plant in looked a little small and out of place. In contrast, Red’s looked perfect.  
I rememinded myself that that was okay. There were people that would be better at things than I was. That didn’t make me bad. Instead, our differences in what we were good and bad at simply made us equals.

Scrubbing the dirt off the back of my hands and off my shirt. I walked to Flo’s to get a drink.  
It was a hot day so Filmore was there. His pants were loose as well as his crop top, which also had puffy sleeves. Flowers adorned his hair and beard.  
“Hey man,” He said, raising his hand to greet me, “What’s floatin’ bro?”  
I walked over to him, grateful for the attention, “I don’t know. What’s up with you, babe?”  
Filmore sat up and moved a chair in for me. Gratefully, I sat down on it. Neither of us could sit properly, of course, but that was precisely beside the point.  
“Here’s what ups man,” Filmore continued, “You know that singer Elvis. He faked his own death, man.”  
“He couldn’t have?” I excaliming. Faxing curiosity and seeing Filmore smile like somebody had just told him his birthday was coming two weeks early.  
“Yeah, he could bro. Could do it like a real 3D Sherlock Holmes, that’s what. Now you’re tellin’ me I’m lying but I’m tellin’ you all them bodies and funerals… They were all faked, man. Don’t buy that junk. The body ain’t even match up with the autospy. The man attended his own funeral. If you ask me, man, he’s still out there. Just waitin’ til the word forgets about him so he can rise again,”  
I’d amit I was more than faking interest now. What Filmore was saying was truly… Fascinating. I felt like some kind of Greek poetry had just leapt from his lips.  
“Woah babe!” I exclaimed, “That’s wicked.”  
“I know man,” He responded.  
Me: “Hey. If you find anything else out about that, tell me, alright.”  
Filmore smiled, “Sure will.”  
And Flo chose that exact moment to appear behind the counter.

“Hey, babies,” She announced, “Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t get my make up right.”  
I couldn’t believe that she didn’t look beautiful without it on. What with her blue dress and strands of curly black hair poking out of a bun. Yet, I understood the need to put on good looking makeup so you could defeat your enemies in one glance so, “I’ll help with it,” I offered.  
Flo smiled.  
“You would?”  
Me: “Yes.”  
Before I left I looked at Filmore, if only because I thought it was what Sheriff would do. He shrugged, “You go do that, man.”  
I nodded, meeting Flo, she took hold of my hand and I followed her to the back of the shop.  
Flo’s room was what you expected for some-one like her but not what you would have expected from someone like me. That was to say it was neat.  
There was a mirror at the front of the room. Old and golden. Beside it sat a jar full of water and Red and Filmore’s flowers, a map of Route 66, highlighted with lipstick and annotated in pen, it looked like it had frequently been hold, a to do list. The to do list noted important events that Flo had been invited to such as, ‘Tea with Filmore and Sarge’s on Wednesday,’ things that she thought she needed to do, such as, ‘Check up on Sheriff at 6,’ ‘See if Red needs any more flowers,’ ‘See if the new chap needs some clothes,’ and even a ‘Phone Home.’ A reminder of a thing that I was beginning to believe this town was unaccustomed to. Their world seemed to exist inside the town and nowhere else. Apparently Flo felt slightly different.  
I smiled at her as she passed over her favourite eyeshadow palette.  
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me,” She said. I returned her grin, unsure what to say. Flo helped me turn the lid of the eye shadow open and, after, I ushered her over to the mirror.  
“Okay, so we’re going to do something inspired by the sun,” I announced, “Use the colour that you would normally use,” Because my hand was in bandages, Flo did so. Moving the brush, she filled it with her chosen colour and flicked the brush lightly against her eyelids, “Looking stunning already. Now, some gold, mostly around the end of the eye but also lightly brush it over the eyelid,” Flo moved her hand completed my inscruction. I found some stars stickers on the side of her eyeshadow palette so, with my free hand, lightly pressed them on.  
Flo looked amazing.  
“You look great, babe,” I announced. Flo blushed.  
“Thanks,” She returned, “I better get back. I might have people waiting,” With that Flo turned and left.

The people waiting were, uhh, not having a good time. Please don’t think I mean that they were a little flustered because Flo had taken a long time to get to them or agitated because, as Flo was gone Filmore had tried cooking for them and he had put rainbow food dye on everything when they had specifically expected no artificial colouring, no, no, it was none of that, it was Sheriff reeling to smash the living daylights out of a costumer.  
The figure stood there. In brown clothes with grey hair slicked back, waiting for Sheriff to hit them. I had never seen Sheriff like this. So agitated, it was almost as if he had become the Anger yet I wasn’t scared because if Sheriff could become Anger then he could very well unbecome him.  
Mr. Fabalous would have run. Alas, the crutches meant that I simply crawled as fast as I could towards Sheriff.  
“Woah,” I lulled. My voice was softer than even I had expected, “Don’t be rash, Donuts. What did they do?” Sheriff breathed in. Out. He attempted to unfurl his fists. My eyes were fixed on his victim, however, for now, making sure he didn’t move.  
“The bastardly hell-raising delinquent spoke ill of you,” Sheriff responded. In. Out. I could see it. No, I could feel him trying to let go of his signs of anger. That emotion had left him bloody tense. Even I knew that this fury was out of place, I looked away from his victim. Letting them out of my sight and nodding my head in order to wordlessly implore him to leave. Filmore saw that guesture.  
Standing up, he embraced, “I’ll walk you out, man,” The person didn’t look to pleased. I imagined that the joy Filmore so endlessly radiated would capture them sooner rather than later. Sure enough, the grey soul gave a quite laugh as he and Filmore walked out the door.  
Fixing my gaze back on Sheriff, I asked, “What did they say?”  
His breathing was less shallow now, “That you were cocky and arrogant. That you deserved the shit you got, the crash, I mean, and worse.”  
I nodded. I understood Sheriff’s anger. There was a lot of that in me too but I didn’t feel like fighting about it anymore. Surprise welled up in my chest when I realised that I didn’t care all that much about what other people thought of me as long as Sheriff smiled when he said my name. I was even more surprised when my only response was to laugh.  
Sheriff’s breathing returned to normal. ‘His laugh is like honey,’ he thought, ‘God damn, honey.’  
“I remember,” I continued, serious now, “A certain mad man who said almost the exact same thing. Not too long ago in fact.”  
The god still wouldn’t smile, “I’m sorry about that, rookie. It’s just- You’ve helped so many people here. Don’t pride yourself mr. unfabolous but your almost a part of the community now. I would hate to see any of us get hurt,” Now, I did cry. God, how feeble my emotions were. A small tear blossomed near the corner of my eye.  
I had always thought myself to good to be a part of a group. I was superior, there was no-one who could match up to me. That plucked up my ego but, you know, being told I was part of the community here, made me feel even happier. I couldn’t dwell on it or I would bend over. Each of my petals tearing vulnerably from their bud.  
To avoid, burdening Sheriff with the task of dealing with a fool, I said, “I’m glad to hear that, babe. Now, is they’re anybody else I need to stop you from beatin’ up or is it cool if I take you home?”  
Sheriff sighed. The shadow of a smile burst upon his face, “You can take me home, rookie,” He responded.

Something in me knew this was going to be the last night, the last night I spent sleeping on his rickety couch, staring out at his ceiling, unable to sleep, and something about me thought that was sad. So it was that when morning broke and sunlight kissed these yellow valleys, I didn’t keep it in. The fool I was heard the pretty flowers rip jaggedly from their bud and cried with every tear. My whole body was overwhelmed with the sobs. It would have explainable, I told myself, if this was about the crash, but it wasn’t, so it couldn’t be.  
It was at that moment that the door to Sheriff’s room opened. My Muse stepped out. He wore the same clothes he had worn yesterday but creased. Bruised fingers were clasped around the barrel of a gun.  
“Rookie,” he whispered, “What happened?” I held my hands over my face, not looking up at him, til’ he grasped them and turned to hold them in his. They shock in his grasp but still he refused to let go.  
“Talk to me, babe,” The sound of his voice pronouncing the last words made me laugh through my tears.  
Breathing deeply, “These people here, you, your human like me ain’t you?” I began, “We’re all just bloody human. And I thought I was entitled because I was the Fabulous Hudson Hornet but everyone here is just as fantastic in their own way. Talented but I- I think kinder than me. They, you, deserve happiness more than I do. Why? Why did I think I was better than everyone? Why does caring, like I do now, scare me so god damn much?”  
“Because,” Sheriff answered without hesisation. More words had been fast, impossible to hear every one of them, still he had understood the gist, “It will hurt. It will hurt more than it would do if you cared solely about yourself but, rookie, it will be a good type of pain because that red draws pigment from happiness. Yes, when you came to this town you were an entitled no-good douchebag who I probably wouldn’t have punched someone up for but, god, idiot, god, you’ve got so much better.”  
I smiled up at him. Whipping tears away from my cheeks. They felt hot against my cool touch.  
It was then that I stood up.  
Like the weather, Sheriff’s mood altered, “Where the heck are you going?”  
My only response was this, “I’m sorry. Thank you so much for everything, tell your town that too, but I have to leave,” I can feel how the words cut against my throat. They felt so wrong. Obviously, Sheriff felt that too. Anger washed over him once again and I watched as his hand trailed down to his gun.  
“You can’t,” he shocked.  
Before he could do anything rash, I placed my hand on his wrist. That act of surrender, paired with my whispered, “Slow down, sunshine,” was enough to bring him back to reality.  
He sat back. God, how the roles were reversed because now he was crying and I was supposed to…. Comfort him? I didn’t know how to do that.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I can’t control it.”  
Turns out being myself was all I had, “Oh, I know. I know. The minds a wicked thing, ain’t it love,”  
“I don’t want you to leave,” Were Sheriff’s next words, so truthful they made my heart skip a beat.  
For the first time since I had been here, I thought about racing. I wondered if they would take me back. I thought they would. If so, I didn’t know how long spend here without disrupting my work. What promises could I make?  
“I will come back to you,” Seemed like the only one. Even if it was for a second, for a day, I would come back to him, “I promise.”  
There were still tears on Sheriff’s cheeks. Reaching up, I brushed them lightly away. We both laugh quitely. It’s whisky on a hot day and sunlight pouring over the road.  
“I promise,” I repeat.

SHERIFF  
He’s gone. Truth of it is that everyday I wake up and miss him. The second truth came with the knock on the door.  
Throwing myself out of bed, I came to open it. It was raining outside, the world basked in heavy storm. Attacking my threshold as well as the man who stood there. Mr. Fabolous’s hair was wet. Rain clung to his denim jacket. It had been weeks since I had seen him, yet, I noted only two things that had changed. His crutches were gone and the bandages that had been wrapped around his hand had been taken off. Gloating the possession of his new free hand, he ran it through his hair.  
“What are you doing here, rookie?” Came my question because not only was it raining but it was also near midnight. The moon was out. Stars behind it.  
“Brought something for you,” He answered.  
I laughed, “What is it? Don’t tell me you were walking by and saw Filmore committing arson?” Mr. Fabolous shock his head, though he couldn’t tell Sheriff that that wasn’t what Filmore was doing.  
“I brought donuts,” He corrected.  
“Donuts?”  
“And coffee… Thought you might be hungry.”  
I stared at the rookie. Taking in everything about him. His beautiful dread locked hair, his arched eyebrows, the eyeliner traced around his eyes, “Surely this could have waited until the morning,” And this this as well. His laugh. His smile. Ever since our empty parting, I had thought about his laugh. Heard it in empty valleys and on quiet roads. Heard it every time sunlight kissed my skin.  
“They wouldn’t let me do this in the morning,” Doc responded. His hands touched my cheeks. His eyes closed. It was then that he kissed me. If his laugh was made of sunlight, then his kiss was too. There was just more of it and, this time, it flowed into me. The magic of it all. The wonder of being me, of being us.  
Doc’s lips parted to catch a breathe.  
The starlight gleamed over our heads, our hands, our lips.  
I kissed him back.  
Heart, my mind sung, why would you fall so quickly for reckless love?  
Breathing hard, like flowers my love and I parted.  
He stood there watching me as if thinking about kissing me all over again. Instead, “You know, babe,” He said, “I think we could be more than our flaws. Would you let me stay over tonight? Could we help each other be more?” It seemed impossible. The magic those words held. It was like I was child again, sitting with my father as we traced our hands with crayons… A gentle twinkling kind of love.  
“I would like that more than anything,” Stepping aside, I let the rookie inside.

When Doc had first came here, he had taken up too much room in the house. It had felt like I would have to become smaller so that we would both fit. Looking at him now, his presence felt right.  
I was almost surprised when the first thing he said was, “May I?” He pointed awkwardly to his wet jacket, to the jacket hanger that stood in the hall. I nodded and watched as he placed the coffee and donuts down on the kitchen table and, placing a kiss against the denim, hang it up before turning to face me.  
“Come here, punk,” I said. Bringing the donuts and coffee with him, he sat down on the chair I had gestured too. He swung his legs over the arm of the chair. It was in that expectably uncomfortable position, that he passed one of the coffee to me and one to himself. We drunk in silence for a second. To talk was to risk breaking up the homely mood into awkward silence or, worse, a fight.  
Finally, “How would we do that?” I asked, “What you said? Help each other be more?”  
Doc shrugged, “I think we could start by talking to each other. Just lay it all out nice and straight. The problems. The emotions. I’ll start….”  
Putting down the coffee, Doc fiddled with the rings on his fingers and did as he had promised.  
“So… Arrogance,” He began, “I was a racer,” Shaking his head forcefully, “Am a racer. If you don’t know how that sport works, it’s commercial as shit. You have to prove that your better than everyone and soon that gets into your head. I was confident before I came to the track but winning, seeing other people lose, I was a God. I didn’t care about anybody else. I regarded them all as lesser. Yet, when I lost, when my coach pointed out that I had done something wrong, it hurt so much, The slightest criticism and I was angry, mad, confused even. And then the crash… The media called it the Great Crash of 1954 but, for me, it was simply my nightmare. It broke my body. I can feel it breaking my heart. It told me that I was fallible, that I was human. I almost died and that made me so scared. I moved here. Found you. You know the rest. You might not know that I’m still struggling… I’m trying not to see myself as superior but every time I close my eyes, every time I’m alone there the other Doc is. There I am so scared of everything in life that might hurt me,” Doc looked away. He closed his eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks. For all his life, there had been a heavy weight in his chest, now, it was gone and his chest felt empty.  
I placed my coffee down. Walking closer, I whipped tears away from Doc’s cheek just as he had done the morning we parted. I didn’t know what to say so although I was not a hugging person, I hugged Doc hard. His body was warm in my hands. Finally, I let go. Sitting back down, “Donut?” I asked and when Doc nodded passed one over. God damn it, you and I both know what I had to do. The promise didn’t work with just one. I had to tell him about myself, too.  
Clearing my throat, I began, “I grew up thinking that this world was perfect, that everybody got what they deserved, happiness, sadness, death, pain. I guess my father contributed to that. He was the first to implant the belief in my head. Again and again he confirmed it. Even when I didn’t like the way it sounded. Even when I told him that I was bullied after a month of it happening in school. “You just need to be better, Sheriff,” he told me. That meant that whenever something bad happened I felt anger because in this world, surely, it was so easy to be good. Whenever someone stuffed up, I was angry at them. I’m angry at the world for being so fucked up. I’m angry at my father, even though I know he tried his best, for leaving me, for making me believe in a fake world. I’m even angry at myself. If I was a better person, bad things wouldn’t happen to me. I still believe that. I still believe that it’s my fault my father died because if I was stronger I would have been able to stop him from going on the mission that killed him. Every little thing I do, everyone does, wrong somehow makes me angrier. Sometimes I feel like it’s all I am.”  
I didn’t cry, then. Unlike Mr. unfabolous, I dealt with my pain in a different way. I stared at the wall, drawing myself away from the spotlight and imagining that I could not be seen. Imagining that I was just part of these valleys, little rivers, neon shops and rickety buildings that I loved so much. For a second, everything I had said felt foolish.  
The cowboy, let it go I’m on breaking point you road hazard, confirmed what, deep in my heart, I already knew, “Your human, donuts. Just like me. Just like everyone you love. If Filmore committed, what did you say he did, arson would you be able to forgive him in time?”  
“I guess so but-,”  
“You’re just like him. You should forgive yourself for those things you thought you did ages ago. Remember that this world is fucked up. We’re just all trying our best. I’ll remind you of that so continuously that it becomes an ear worm, yeah, sweetie?”  
I smiled, “Yeah, road hazard.”  
I hadn’t expected it when Doc took me by my hand. Drawing me up out of my seat, he kissed me again. Laughing if only because he knew that I loved the sound of his laugh.  
Stepping back, “We should get some sleep,” He omitted.  
“Where?” I asked him.  
“I’ll sleep on the couch. You on your bed.”  
“Are you sure?” My expression twisted, “We could…” Doc reached up and placed one ringed finger against my lip to silence me.  
“Nah, babe,” He repeated, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”  
Standing there, I watched as he got his now dry jacket off the rack. Sprawled it out over the top of him and, closing his bleary eyes, the devil, okay angel, my angel fell silently asleep.

Heavy breathing woke me from my sleep.  
Still dressed in my clothes I had worn the night before, I always slept in my clothes shh, I grabbed my gun and opened the door. Yet, where I had expected a threat, there was only Doc.  
I could hear his heart beat from here. Lo! My love sat there, unable to breathe. He shock violently. Not just his hands but his head and his shoulders as well. If I had looked closely, I would be able to see in his dark clouded eyes nothing but fear. Fear that this was it. That he was going under, into madness or death he did not know, but he thought nobody would be able to pull him out.  
I did not come immeaditely towards him. I would have done under any different scenario but this wasn’t about dangers outside, this was about the dangers trapped in his mind and I knew the vulnerable lover would have wanted to be left alone until he pushed the worst of them away. Eventually, his shaking stopped. The breathe that escaped from his lips was rigged. In. Out.  
It was only then that I approached. Attempting not to startle him, I kept myself in his line of sight. Sitting down beside him, “Hey,” I whispered, “Are you alright?”  
He shock his head. I nodded.  
“Is there anything you need?” I tried again.  
This seemed to communicate with his heart a little more.  
“Their nightmares,” He responded, “I-,” Unable to find the words, his hands came together. Gently, one finger traced across his thumb. He looked up at me whilst doing so. I was amazed when I realised I knew what he was saying, ‘Their nightmares,’ his hands no longer shaking after the worst of it has passed, signalled, ‘But I feel safe in your touch.’  
I didn’t say anything else. Sitting down next to him, he leaned his head against my chest. My hands wrapped around his form. I held him in my arms. Held him til’ I felt his body grow calm and kept holding while he fell asleep again.

Sleep must have found me there. As the morning light kissed my eyelids, I woke up to find Doc dreaming in my arms. I attempted not to wake him as I lifted myself up but evidently failed. Slowly, his eyes opened. When he saw me sitting there, his brows furrowed in confusion, “I thought you were a dream,” He lulled sleepily.  
“Don’t be rude, rookie,” Came my response, “I am a dream.”  
His laugh was muffled as it was directed mainly into the couch rather than to me.  
“S’possed to be my line,” He mumbled.  
“I’m going to have a quick shower,” I responded, “You can use the bathroom after me.”  
Locking myself in the bathroom, I threw my clothes off and took a quick shower. Since there was less of my hair to take care of, washing it took less than an instant. There was no makeup for me when I walked back out. Just another set of black clothes and my hand clasped around my gun. Always the same. Always simple.  
Mr. Fabalous was sitting up when I saw him again. Awake or at least as awake as he was ever going to be.  
“You look beautiful, love,” He said. His voice was clearer now that his face was not turned into the couch.  
“Your turn,” I respond. He gets up, lying his ‘Punks Respect Pronouns,’ jacket light on the couch. His touch is so light. I remember that I’ve felt it before. His hands so foolishly on my cheeks as he kissed me. Damn, what a night. What a rookie.  
I watch as he gets out a palette of makeup and a new set of clothes I didn’t see him bring in yesterday. Getting into the bathroom, he locks the door behind him.  
Normally, I might make coffee but not today. My heart aches to see Flo and somehow I know his does too. I would hate to make the lady wait. Sitting down, I knotted my hands through my hair and waited…  
The tap turned on. Quietly, the water cascades around him.

DOC  
The water that slides down the curves of my hands and body is cold too my touch. No, worse than that it’s heavy. I can feel it’s weight pushing down upon me. I had said I thought Sheriff was a dream but the truth was I wished he was a dream. He hadn’t been supposed to see my like that.  
The minds a wicked thing, ain’t it love?  
Stepping out, I jam off the tap. I fetch a travel-sized towel from my makeup bag, dry my hair thoroughly with it. My hands slid to the makeup bag and even though I know Sheriff’s waiting for me I take hours to decide on what will be the best look. All days are a battle and a man, he, she, they, everyone’s gotta wear the right armour. Finally, I decide on eyeshadow, red at the top blending through to orange and yellow at the sides and at the bottom. I also apply a base of makeup with a delicate counter. Stepping back, I push my hair up not a bun. Damn boy, I smile, you look fabulous. If today is a battle then you are winning.  
Eventually, I step out of the shower, closing the door behind me.  
Sheriff stands up. He looks agitated. Yet, I can see the tension, or maybe I imagine it, god stop doing that Doc, work out what’s reality and stick to it, roll off his shoulders when he sees how good I look.  
“Stop doing that,” He commands, “Or I’ll throw you in the dirty impound for being sexy as hell,”  
I shock my head, “You wouldn’t be able to arrest me. You’re not fast enough.”  
Sheriff lifted his eyebrows. Pursed his lips, “You bet.”  
Silence hang between us. For once in my life I didn’t find that bad. His presence was enough without needing words.  
“I’m taking you over to Flo’s, rookie. Come with me,” Taking my hand in his, he drags me towards the door. His sideways glance of concern is something that I want to shake off. Even after the makeup and the shower, my exhaustion is clearly still evident. With his free hand, he flings the door open. Together, we step out into the dark room around us.

The smell of coffee meets us as we enter the café. Flo’s makeup is better than mine. It serves us both a punishment and a reminder. Flo’s hands are covered in floor as she wades out from behind the counter. I wouldn’t want to tell Sheriff but the look of concern she holds on her face matches his exactly, if a little stronger. She can see how slowly Sheriff walks. The red bags that hang underneath my glamorous eyes.  
“O, hunnies!” She voices.  
It is only then, when she has adressed what is always her first concern, the comfort and wellbeing of her costumers, that her eyes fall longer on my form. Somehow I’m where I should be and where I shouldn’t be all at once,  
“Doc,” she smiles. Coming closer, she wraps me gaily in a hug.  
“Flo,” I respond with a laugh as she lets go.  
Her: “What’s drawn you back here, babe?”  
And me: “Oh, you know, just following the road.”  
“Let’s get you sat down,” she offers, “I’ll make you a drink,” It’s a statement but the business woman she is, Flo crafts it into a question. She waits patiently for my order. One hand held gently on her hip. I think about what I should order, normally I’d have a glass, bottle even of whisky but I want to be better for Sheriff, so instead I answer, “One cappuccino,” Flo turns to look at Sheriff next, “What about you?” She asks.  
“I’m take my normal thanks Flo.”  
We sit on the counter as Flo goes and gets the drinks. I sit with my legs crossed over. Sheriff sits with his elbow against the table. His hand resting on his fist.  
“So,” I ask. Last night’s conversation is still there, lingering on our tongues. The time we spent when I first came here had drawn us together but last night was when we truly begin to… Not understand, fully not yet, but see each other. We see each other’s colours and thought them beautiful.  
“What do you know about racing?” I ask. I’m thinking about the race track. There’s a shame in admitting it, of course, and yet it’s a piece of me anyway.  
“Shit all,” is Sheriff’s only response, “I know that you go fast and whatever it is I know your a rookie in the craft. Punk, you’re always going to be a rookie.”  
“I’ve won three piston cups, I’ll have you know,” I retort.  
Sheriff’s stare is full of bewilderment. He doesn’t move his hands. Doesn’t move his face, just stares out at me with eyes that gleam disbelief.  
“You did what?” He asks.  
“Won races.”  
That didn’t seem to sway his judgement, remaining stern, “Can’t believe you piston cupped.”  
Walking forward, Flo saved Sheriff from a subsequent lecture about racing. She placed our drinks down and then, knowing she had time before any more guests walked through the door, pulled over a chair to sit beside me.  
“I know the lines of this road better than the back of my hand, babe,” She said, “But I know that if your gonna ride you have to have reached a decision to get in your car first. What’s drawn you back here, Doc? Seriously, I’m all ears.”  
I shut down the little voice in my head that insisted that I was the Fabolous Hudson hornet, ‘I did it because I wanted to,’ That wasn’t reason enough. Even the god you thought you were, Doc, I shouted back at the younger version of myself, has to have a reason and there was something about Flo that made me want to trust here.  
“I made a promise,” I said simply, “I promised Sheriff that I would return. I guess I promised this town that too.” Fixing a strand of her curled hair, Flo nodded, “Route 66 has missed you,” she responded, “Filmore, Red, Luigi and Guido they were all shell-shocked when I told them you were gone.”  
What was I supposed to say to that, I thought? The answer that threatened to rise to my lips was, ‘Good.’ It was good that they had missed me. I deserved to be missed. Thinking about Sheriff made me stop and realise how cocky that would sound but what else should I say?  
“Tell them,” I began, “Tell them I missed them too.”  
Flo blushed, “Will do, sweetie,” The next question she asked wasn’t one I had been prepared for, “How long will you stay?”  
My eyes met the corners of Sheriffs. His eyes were a deep brown. His scraggly hair cast a shadow over them. Most importantly they betrayed, ‘Say you’ll stay forever.’  
Outloud but barely audiable, I whispered, “Donuts, this isn’t because you deserve it. It’s just that this world is fucked up,” Slowly, he laughed and I turn back to Flo to say, “Two days. Three days, tops.”  
Her next question was one I had been prepared for, “Where will you stay, sweetheart?”  
“Love. Where can I stay?” I responded.  
I saw Sheriff stare at me, perplexed that I didn’t just say I would stay with him. Even though I knew he would allow it, I wanted to be better for him. I didn’t want to wake him up everyday. To make him hold my crooked form whilst the petals were plucked away. He would do so for just one night, no more.  
It was because of that that when Flo said, “There’s the Cozy Cone Motel. The old owners left a while ago. They gave me the key. Me and Ramone check the place over a few times each season. It’s still liveable,” it was agreed that that was where I would stay.  
In the Cozy Cone, away from my new found lover, til’ it was time to pack up my stuff and hit the road once more.

SHERIFF  
He was staying in the Cozy Cone, the fool, when I wanted him here. I knew what his reason was but I also knew that I needed to spend time with him. Yet, it was only in the late afternoon that I arrived home. A note sat in the middle of my counter.  
It had been placed neatly on the white surface. A smear of makeup on it’s side so I knew that it had been placed there by Flo. It was she who had the keys to my house anyway. Moving closer, I picked the piece of parchment up, held it to my chest and unfurled it.. Whilst it had been placed and brought here by Flo, it had not been written by her. No. It could not have been when the handwriting was so smudged and barely readable. This was a kind of writing that said, ‘I don’t care.’  
Leaning in closely, I attempted to read it.  
‘Date night babe,’ was the heading, then scrawled underneath, ‘Where: Whether you find me, When: Whenever you find me,’ I frowned. Very helpful, rookie, thank you. The last words were these, “Wear something nice,” Although I should have been concerned, I could not help but smile. Excitement wound it’s way through my heart.  
“What are you up to, rookie?” I said the words outloud, let them coat the walls of my empty house.  
Before I could leave, I stared at the last words again, ‘Wear something nice.’ Where in the blooming trailers of the white savanna was I supposed to get something nice?

SHERIFF  
I came to Flo’s first. She stood behind the bench. Her hands working to wipe it down. Curly black hair framed her face. She looked tired, like she had been there all night but , somehow, found it impossible to stop.  
“Hey, sweetie,” She said as I approached. I did not sit down but leaned against the bench. My gun was at my side but my anxiety reminded me why I should not touch it.  
“Flo,” I responded.  
“What do you need, hon?”  
“I.. Doc asked me… I mean… Or rather…. Doc asked me out on a date.” The words finally fell through my lips. I felt foolish standing there, too seen, then, a little angry. Why was I even here? I felt like a fool who’s awarkedness screamed their identity over the world, “I don’t know what to wear,” A pink flush in my cheeks. My hands were hot.  
Yet, Flo only smiled at me. She tilted her head to the back of the room, “Ramones in there,” She addressed, “He’ll give you something really stunning.”  
I turned to leave, walking past the counter and towards the back door, I stood under it’s rectangular arch when Flo said, “I hope you two love birds have a great time. If he hurts you you call me okay, sweetie? Your emotions don’t change your person, yeah,” For a second, I simply looked down at the floor.  
Angry at myself a little more than I had been a second before.  
I remembered what Doc said. That the world was a pretty fucked up place and we’re all trying our best. It was okay if I stuffed up too, felt hurt, worried or sad, at least I was still trying. It fit perfectly alongside what Flo had said and, with that, I smiled up at her.  
“Thanks, Flo,” I lulled.  
“Anytime.”  
Stepping through the door, I found Ramone waiting for me in the back room of the cafe-bar.  
He’s wearing a purple suit with the sleeves tucked up to reveal an array of tattoos. One button is undone. There’s a white blouse underneath the jackets. He’s got his hands in his pockets and is looking out at me like he was always expecting me to come. My god, how many people did Mr. Unfabalous talk about me with.  
“Come on, man. Ramone will fix you up just right,” he says. I am lead from the back room to a second room- I’m unsure how Flo’s place works give me a break. It’s obvious that this room isn’t used by Flo by rather by Ramone. Case in point, it isn’t too neat. Instead, cool neon lights wash over the room. The walls are filled with different pieces of clothing hanging up on rackers or folded on drawers. If you put it all together there would be mountains of clothes, taller than me, taller than Doc even. Yet, an orderly arrangement is still present.  
“What do you want, man?” Romane says, looking me up and down, “I can do a leather jacket and coat. Make you look a punk-ah. Maybe large sweater, corduroy pants. Cute huh? What about it?” I sighed. Looking around at everything here, the amount of choices daunted me. Normally I only wore the same clothes. Long pants with a black or white blouse, suspenders and a belt, a gun at my side, but my clothes were stained and too worn. Doc had said something nice.  
Soon, my eyes caught open what I thought, in most people’s eyes, would look nice. A dark grey suit jacket hang up on the racks. There were no stripes or patches. Plain. Just the way I liked it. Pants were hang up near it. A white blouse next.  
“What about that?” I asked, pointing to the items.  
“A- fancy.”  
“Would it look nice?” I ask. Ramone holds it up over my form. It feels weird standing here, so soon, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the attention like the rookie is, God, imagine loving it.  
“Yes,” Ramone finally concluded.  
“I’ll try it on.”  
Ramone turns his back as I do so. The fabric licks against my skin. My hands awkwardly fix the two gold buttons. Even though it may not fit right in my heart, the suit perfectly frames my body. It’s colour matches with the grey that I have often seen flaring in the corner of my eye.  
I turn.  
Ramone’s staring at me when I do. Once can tell when a man feels that they’ve done good business. Ramone runs one dark hand through their gelled hair.  
“Pizzaz!” He exclaims.  
I frown, “What in this sweet homely valley is that supposed to mean?”  
“Man,” Ramone shakes his head. Either in disbelief of my ignorance or his own success, “You got flare.”  
I smile, “Thanks, you funky fashion king.”  
Smiling, Romane walks up to me. He’s rougher than Flo, the edges of his form are sharp, he’s tall and dark and their are tattoos all over his skin, sometimes even the way he talks can be intimidating but he’s happy like her. They’re happy because everyday they wake up and find a new wonder in each other and in the life they have built. I know that I feel the same about Route 66, we all do. We might not have stayed if we didn’t. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way about a person…. About Doc??? Will he unravel himself and have nothing left or will he continue shining like he did last night?  
That’s what I’m thinking when Ramone attempts to fix the sleeves of my shirt, arranging the cufflinks. His hands are bruised.  
Stepping back from me, he looks me up and down and nods, “Go get your man,” He says.

If Ramone is right when he calls him mine, then I find my man sitting in an empty barn. Vines with little flowers bleeding from them adorn the walls. Cream light fills through the room, streaming in through a broken window. There are no lights here, no chairs, no chandlers or roses, there is simple him. He sits on the dirty window sill. He’s placed a bottle of whisky and a box of donuts against the wall near him. A small brown wireless radio sits there, too. The only sign of wealth about him is in his suit. The navy blue matches with his eyes. One cuffed hand moves up to put the final touch on his eyeliner as he stares out of the window. The only sign of elegance about him is that, damn, makeup. An artist in his own right, he’s placed it on so perfectly. The counter, the blush, the eyeshadow and eyeliner. It all shines. Everything about him is beautiful.  
“Rookie,” I announce myself.  
“Babe,” He responds, putting away the eyeliner, he turns towards me. God, my god, he’s stunning.  
“I’ve told you I’ll lock you in the impound for being sexy,” I sigh agitated. “You have and I’ve also told you that you can’t catch me.”  
“Is this a date?” I ask. It feels foolish that question. Should it be a date, I ask, do I really want to fall headfirst into such blind and reckless love? If the mind is wicked then the heart must be as well.  
Mr. Unfabolous gets down from where he’s sitting on the windowsill. He walks over and turns a few knobs on the wireless radio.  
“Oh sweetie,” He annouces, “It’s a dance.”  
The music blares loud.  
Taking my ragged hand in his, smooth, the rookie drags me onto the dance floor of my hearts eye. Even though this is not really a song built for waltzing, his hand slides down to my hip. Even though, I know how to dance he instructs me to, “Lean into me. And your hand…” My hand on his shoulder, “There.” This feels like a game. Yet, if love were a game we’d both be damn well losing by now.  
We start off slow and become Gods in the minute.  
I know the song that plays.  
‘Shoot through the heart  
And your to blame,’  
I think I know why he’s chosen it to. I might just be the only thing the punk can think about. Too have someone constantly on your mind is painful… It’s a bullet.  
‘Darling, you give love  
A bad name.’  
Our dancing was flawed, just like ourselves. The punk stumbled a few times but I was always there to catch him.  
Soon the song died away.  
He turned his head away to laugh hard. His hands still clasped around my waist.  
“Babe?” He asks, “Should we get out of here? See where the night takes us.”  
I nod and he is still laughing when he takes my by the hand and pulls me out of the barn and onto the streets. The wireless radio is still held in his other free hand. The music has changed. It’s still the same mood, if only a little bit gentler.  
The cool night air cuts across my face as we start dancing again. Here on the road I love so much with a man I think I might love too. The night feels alive around us. I don’t feel angry, no, for once I allow myself to feel only happiness.  
Seconds later, Flo, cleaning up her cafe-bar for the last time before saying goodnight, looks up to see us dancing together. She almost wants to run after me, to see if I’m safe but my smile is enough. Slowly, Flo puts down the cloth. Walking over to a panel, she presses a few switches.  
Neon lights flare over the streets. In blue and orange and indigo, they cake the ground and the world around us. They are full of hope. Hope that this is a love that might last. It is enough to get lost in them. They are so beautiful and so… Full. There is nothing hollow about them.  
It makes the dance seem cut out of a magazine. The date is so picture perfect. Just a few days before, I had never thought that I would have been worthy of such a dance, yet here we were. Here I wanted to stay.  
‘Last night, you came to my house with drunk eyes. We didn’t think too much this time. We danced like we were the same.’  
Yes, I thought, yes!  
Shortly, the music rolled to a close. My love and I stood under the neon lights. I could see the colours of Doc’s heart around him, shrouding the iris of his eye.  
We did not dance then, just stared. The rookie reached out to, once more, take my hand in his.  
“Your amazing, babe,” He says, “Don’t forgot that- But also,” The music has stopped. There is silence, “Things happen in life that you might try to change but can’t. You see, everybody and everything is different. As I’ve told you the world is pretty fucked up and…”  
I cut him off, “Cut to the chase, rookie.”  
The rookie in question sighs, “I have to leave. I’ll be gone by the morning. You won’t be able to find me. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”  
My heart sunk. I knew that there must have been a reason for all this madness but that didn’t mean I had wanted to hear it, “So we just have tonight?” It’s hollow. Empty of insults.  
My muse nods, “Just tonight.”  
The neon flaring over our bodies, over every part of our world when I ask, “May I kiss you?”  
Doc smiles, “You may.”  
Our lips meet. Moonlight mixed with neon dances wildly upon our skin. I’ll never get tired of the magic of this moment, of moments like this. I’ll never get tired of how safe I feel here. It’s beautiful, knowing that he sees me, I see him, but we love each other still.  
Parting, “Promise you won’t try to find me?” He whispers, “I don’t think you’ll like what you find there.”  
“And what will I find there?” I ask.  
He bites his lip. It’s clear that he won’t tell me where he’s going, not in a million years, so I close my eyes and whisper, “i promise.” I startle when I realise I believe it. Sometimes where others fit another person may not and maybe that would be okay.  
“The worlds a pretty fucked up place, anyway,” I add.  
Doc swings his hands over my shoulders. His honeyed laughter echoes in my ears once more.  
He is so much himself that he forgets that I might be worried about if he will come back, he forgets our promises to make each other better instead he just turns and walks back to the Cozy Cone.  
It’s hours after that that Flo turns off the lights.

My room in the Cozy Cone is clean. it’s not full of the wealth I’m used too instead there are white walls and a cleanly made bed. Yet, it’s also empty. It’s empty because he’s not here.  
I walk over to the mirror first. it’s cracked and broken. There’s no golden frame, nothing bordering the glass to make it special and rich. I stare into the mirror. My hands slide down my makeuped cheek.  
Dear god, it hasn’t been supposed to end that way. I was supposed to be better. For. Him. I should go back there but how could I walk back down the streets, loop my hand around his shoulder and.... What would there even be to say? The poets know that the Fabalous Hudson Hornet can not bring himself to admit that he’s wrong, so there the man he liked, (loved?) would stay. The whisky and the donuts forever pressed against that wall.  
Turning off the lights, I walk away from the mirror.  
There’s a small bag under my tidy bed, all packed up and ready to go. Picking it up, I place it outside the door. It’s a reminder that I’m leaving, I have to leave, I want to leave. Turning back to my bed, I don’t think about the nightmares. The idea that I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, shaking in the dark with no messiah to save me, is not enough to deter me from slipping into those comfortable white blankets, resting my tired head on the pillow. My brown hair spreads like waves over that sea.  
Before I can fall asleep, my phone begins to vibrate where it sits on the bedside table next to me. Clumsily, I stumble over to it. Too late, my phone registers that I’ve missed the call. It slides up as a notification on my broken screen... The King. There’s about fifty of the same notification all down the screen. He’s been calling me all day, trying to reach out. God, king! Can’t a man disappear to a small abandoned town without another man worrying about them?  
It was only after I let my phone slide out of my hands, landing on my beside table that I heard someone knock on the door. Knock. Knock. Knock.  
Sighing, I opened it.  
There on the threshold in the cold of the night stood the king. He looked out of place here. What with his blue suit and his hair slicked back. He held his phone in his hand. There was a tired look on his face as if he had been searching for me all that long night, which, if i was to ask, he would say he was. His racing car: the Plymouth Superbird was parked on the curb.  
He stared up at me, “Doc?”  
“Strip.” I responded, “What are you doing here?”  
“I was looking,” the king said absent mindedly, “and then I was finding.”  
“Strip.” I firmly repeated.  
The blonde haired, pale skinned man looked me in the eyes, “That’s The King to you.”  
“Fine, King. What are you doing here?”  
“I tracked you down,” the King finally said, his words drawn out. He held up his phone, “There’s an app for that. I had it set up seeming... Well, we both know your type. Don’t need to dig it in. Anyways they’re signing people up for the next racing season, I want you to be there. Look son, I know your broken but like I tell the young un’s down on the track, you got to give it your best shot.”  
It was lot to think about. Firstly, the fact that he had called me ‘son’ when he must have been five years younger than me at least ten at most. Secondly, the fact that he had driven all the way to take me to sign up. I had already been thinking about going back to racing. Even though I was starting to find a new place in my heart for Sheriff, my heart would be forevermore tied to racing. I craved the feeling of impossibility. I ached for success. I had just never thought that this was how I would return.  
Unknowingly, my eyes drifted off to the corner of the room. They scanned the walls of the Cozy Cone hotel room. The King followed my gaze. There must have been something in my eyes, some kind of love because sooner than I knew what I was doing he had asked, “Why are you here anyway?”  
“Everyone should be able to go places. Freedom of movement, that’s a constitutional right in some places, you know. You should be able to move from state to state. You shouldn’t be locked into one town forever. That’s not how the world should work…”  
“Hud…”  
I frown. My voice is lighter when I say, “Some person, you know babe. Some town.”  
I can see his face changing. The King isn’t used to any of the other racers caring…. It’s always been him who’s there to lift us up. It’s funny how I never noticed that. Yet, I notice, now, that he’s seeing a new light in me. In the place of the past me stands a person who could be capable of change, maybe, could be capable of love, maybe.  
“Are you coming with me?” He asks. Lighter.  
I pick up my bag, “On my way, babe,” and walk out the door.  
The King throws himself in the front seat, me in the passengers, before we drive through the night.

The King continues driving.  
Some song with weird lyrics but a beat that could kill blares on the radio.  
The stars puncture the open sky. If you peer out of the front of the car and up, up, there are the bright flares you’ve always wanted in life. The light you can cling to.  
The King continues driving.  
I slump against the passengers door. My ‘Punks Respect Pronouns,’ jacket pulled up so that it covers my chest, aligning with the side of my cheek. I don't know how it is that I manage to sleep there, between the lights and the music, but some how I do. My dreadlocks fall in a heap over my face.  
Sometime in the night I must have had a nightmare. I don't know what else would have happened to make the King pull over. He parks the car on the curb at the same time as I shake beside him. Sheriff isn't here so there is nothing I can do to stop the shaking. My heart beats fast in my chest. Even though I’ve experienced this before, the sense that I am drowning in madness or in pain comes again.  
The King waits for me patiently. He doesn't say a word. There is no damnable pity reflecting in his eyes. There is nothing but a simple, easy silence.  
When the worst of it has gone, I sit back in my chair. If I had expected cars to be driving down the freeway, I would have been disappointed. The road was as silent as the man next to me. Looking around, the world was surprisingly dark, illuminated only by the stars and the street lamps that cast their golden light over the freeway.  
To my surprise, the King clicks a button on his keys and the drivers seat opens, “This is as good a place as any," He says.  
"For what?" I ask, my exhaustion carries in my voice.  
"To get changed, Hud. We can't show up wearing the same gear we wore yesterday," is his reply. I watch as his hand slides down the buckle. As the familiar sound of it unlocking rings in my ears, I remember to say, "Hey, babe. Thank you."  
The King is startled. This is the face of a man who has done everything for the people around him but has never gotten a word of thanks in return. That means that there are sparks of happiness in his eyes but they are ruled over by clouds of pain.  
“I’m sorry," I mumble, clearer now, "I'm sorry,” I start crying again. The tears well up in my eyes and spill out. I don't know if I’ll ever be able to stop being, well… Me.  
He leans over and places his hand on my shoulder. He doesn't do so to make it awkward, he knows I am comforted by touch, “It's alright," He says. He’s calm like he's used to this, "Hey, better now than never, yeah," I shrug. Moving the back of my hand, I whip tears away from my cheeks.  
"Yeah," i respond. I watch as the King slides out of his seat. I copy his movements, meeting him on the streets we walk towards a row of public toilets. It's the fist time we've both had to use them before but I remind myself that it's alright, to settle on the cheap. I don't need to constantly be using my money to gloat about my self importance. There are many ares of life in where money doesn't matter.  
The King meets me back in the car.  
He's wearing a blue suit. There's more gel in his already slicked back blonde hair. This is the first time he's worn fancier clothes than I have. Me who's simply wearing the same wearing, 'Punks Respect Pronouns,’ jacket, a loose fitting whit shirt and black jeans. Theres' not a suit in sight. I work hard to push my hair up into a bun.  
Getting back into the car, we drive to our destination.

It’s early morning when we arrive and all I can think is… Beautiful. I’ve missed this so much.  
There are cars parked all along the rubble driveway. I know them as much as I know the people who stand around them.  
The racers throng about the carpark. All of them share my arrogance. All of them have been swept up by the performance style of racing and left hanging. They don expensive clothes with gleaming accessories. Many of them hold beer bottles in their hands. Their conversation is loud, deafening, even. I suppose what that all ties into is to say that it’s hideous but I love everything about it. It’s not really a sensation, nay, but knowledge that this is where I fit.  
From within the crowds, Smokey looks up. His blonde hair is tied back into a bun. He wears a pink tank top with words on it that I could not hope to read. I smile back at him. I fit here, it pulses through my heart. Here.  
With that thought in mind, I approach the people who are signing the racers up for the next season. Like everything else, there is an air of artistry about them. Both of them are cis-het white men wearing the same tuxedo as all men are supposed to, yet, they wear it with an air that makes you believe they did something special. Their voices mingle with the sound of the other competitors.  
Obnoxious, they do not notice my approach.  
I lean forward. Cough loudly.  
It’s only then that I think that there’s something different from them and everyone else here. I remember the crowds I had with racing, the support, none of that is shown now. The Fabulous Doc Hudson is right in front of them and they are so ungrateful that they do not even as much as note his attention.  
“Morning, babes,” I eventually say, agitated but trying not to show it, “I’m the Fabulous Hudson Hornet. I’m racing this season. My name should be someone there,” I run my finger down the list. Trying to find my name but one of the men draws it away from me. He shakes his head.  
“Your not there, mate. Didn’t you know? Your team is racing someone else now….” I stare at them, perplexed. Their words seemed make-believe in my head. I was almost ready for them to start laughing, for the King everyone, to call out their prank and be done with it.  
But… “You’re history,” the man said and I knew that I was done for.  
It’s funny, how your heart can sit right in your chest, how your hands will not shake, how your breaths will come easily, and then God will tell a cog and it will all come a part. It’s funny how you can know who you are, who you want to be in a second and then be left with no trace of that person in the next. Some people don't experience that. Some people live their lives behind the closed blinds of the world…  
But not this God of the race track. Nay, he has to feel it all.  
You're history.  
Turning away from the table, I felt my hands shake, my heart was hard and fast in my chest. Without knowing what I was doing I gave into that angry beast Sheriff had told me about. I kicked the King's Plymouth Superbird. Punched it, too… All because of one man's words, all because I was angry, all because I had let myself believe that I was something more. The world was fucked up, it really was, and this time I didn't feel like doing anything to change it. I just kept beating up the king's car. The King came to me. If he was anybody else he would have attempted to restrain me but he was him so whatever happened he would let me get my way. I could break him, tear him any way I wanted and he would stand by and watch it happen. Good.  
I hit the car til' my breaths returned to normal, hit it til’ my foot hurt with the pain of it, hit it til' it was battered and bruised, a little more.  
Once I was done, I crawled up into a ball beside it. Moving my knees so that they pressed flat against my chest, I rocked back and fourth. My tears stained my shirt.  
You're history.  
You're history.  
You're history.

I didn't know how long it had been, (one hour? two? Three?) before I heard a familar voice. I didn't know, yet, who was speaking. I didn't bother to look up anyway. If they had come for me, which was unlikely, they wouldn’t want to see me like this.  
Still, I followed the track of their conversation…  
Familiar voice: "Are you sure, hot rodder delinquent? I can pay to fix the damage on the car..."  
The King: ”No, son. I've already told you... My insurance will pay for it. “  
Familiar voice, "Should I go up to him? Would that be okay?”  
"Your the sheriff, son. Trust your instincts."  
The person's instincts were likely ill-fated. Walking closer, they placed their hand under my chin and forced my head up, saying, "It's me, rookie. Your worst nightmare.”  
Sheriff…. That was who had come to see me. The one person I would have dreamt about being here as well as the one person who I couldn’t bare seeing. I didn't uncurl my form.  
"What are you doing here, babe?" I asked, trying to pretend I hadn't been crying even though tears stained my cheeks.  
"The King called me," was Sheriff's honest reply, "Actually, he called you. You left your phone at Radiator springs, hot shot,” I frowned. God, how many times could I thank and curse the king. I loved and hated the company like I loved and hated him doing things for me.  
Sheriff didn't talk about what the call had said, he didn't talk about the tears that coated my cheeks, instead, he just gazed at the King's Plymouth Superbird 360.  
“That looks a wreck,” he noted, glancing back at me, “Did it deserve it?”  
I looked down. It felt right that I hadn’t deserved to lose my career in racing but Sheriff’s words reminded me that I had taken it out on the world and that shouldn’t have happened, “No,” I stumbled, “No. It didn’t,” I was crying again. My body was an endless pit of tears and I would cry til the heavens said it had dried.  
“I understand,” was Sheriff’s only reply. I knew he did, of course, he did, “Seriously punk, you’ve stolen my signature move.”  
I whispered a quick, “I’m sorry,” before I stood up. Looking around, I didn’t know which way I would walk, only that I would walk, so I closed my eyes and began. Sheriff caught up with me. His hand fell lightly in my hands. Light glistened between us as he held me still, “Where are you going?”  
“People should be allowed too…”  
“Rookie-,” He was stubborn and I was too tired to resist.  
“I don’t know!” I yelled, “I don’t know, babe. I used to have racing. I fit in there. The moments I spent racing were the only times I had that I truly felt alive. They took that away from me. There is so much left in me that I’ll never have the chance to show. That’s not fair,” Wrestling out of his grasp, I started to walk quickly. It was true that there was nowhere I could go, nowhere to turn. With the crash, I had known I wasn't a god. My body had broken. The world falling in around me. With the “no more racing,”, I had nothing left. And there was my heart- Lying abandoned on the race track where no-one could fix it because no-one knew how.  
Sheriff didn’t understand that. He could never understand what racing was to me. He didn't try to stop me, just stood there in the now abandoned parking lot, the rubble blending in with the grey tips of his hair, staring… “Don’t say it like that,” He whispered, lightly. His words were not littered with the multiple swear words. He was vulnerable on that grey, grey street, “Don't say you have nothing left. I know you’ve lost racing. I know it doesn’t replace it but you’ve still got me. You’ve got the town.” If I had been just a step further away from him, I wouldn’t have turned around.  
I shock my head, "Without racing, I am nothing."  
“Without racing, you are you."  
I knew, then, who I was looking at. The only person whose love for me wasn't tied, in some way, to my success in the racing world. The only person in the world who cared for me for me. It wasn't a lot. It didn't change where my heart still lay but it was enough at least to make me turn around. It was enough for me to come barreling into his arms, crying all over his clean shirt. He held me as gently as he had the night I had a nightmare and he was the only one there. He held me with an air of understanding and then, as gentle as his touch on my skin, “Come to Route 66,” he offered.

I was still a mess when I walked up to the King and, on Sheriff’s bidding, gave him money for the car, only as much as he would take. I was still a mess when I thanked him and he hugged me hard. He said he was sorry. In that moment, it felt right.  
Getting my bag from King’s car and walking back with Sheriff, I climbed into the passengers seat of his car. The inside and outside of the car was black, "Like my soul, punk,” was what Sheriff said. It looked unused. Even though Sheriff wasn't the tidiest man I had ever known, it was kept clean, free from anything that might litter the floor. On the back of my seat was a small blue handprint. It looked like it had been done by a child. There was a hole in the middle of the footprint meaning whoever had done it hadn't quite been able to keep their hand flat. If I had asked Sheriff, he might have told me that this was his fathers' car. He had inherited it when his father died. If I had asked Sheriff, I might have known that on the day of the blue handprint, his father had gotten so angry that he had locked himself in the bathroom til' his father, apologetically, brought them both ice creams.  
Yet, I was too sad, too tired, to ask any question so I never knew.  
Slowly, Sheriff took his jacket off, "You look cold, rookie,” He exclaimed. He leaned across. Gently, sliding my, 'Punks Respect Pronouns,' jacket off, putting his hoodie underneath and returning the jacket to it's original position, "There now you won't go dyeing of frostbite on my watch," He finished.  
Turning the key in the exhaust, my Sheriff began to drive. We didn't talk.  
I simply rested my head on my fist, my elbow on the door's handle and stared out as the freeway passed us by. Occasionally, tears slid down my cheeks.  
Sheriff seemed content in my silence.  
He drove past the place where I had had a nightmare and Strip pulled over. He drove past all of the signs and the lights. He drove past town after town. He drove me.. Home??  
"Stay with me, tonight," He whispered, gently, "I don't know what idiot punks do in their spare time. I don't know if it's anything healthy."  
The town gave me enough energy to say, 'What is it? Don’t trust me babe?"  
In truth, "Something like that, yeah," was Sheriffs' reply.  
Together we clambered through the threshold and into Sheriff's room.  
“Where can I sleep?” I asked. Exhaustion baring on every word.  
“Rookie, try on the bed."  
"Are you sure?" I replied, cautious.  
The, “please," was the only thing that got me to do as. Sheriff said. Lying down on the bed, I closed my eyes and instantly fell asleep.

Even though the day was the worst day I had ever had, the nightmares didn’t find me there in Sheriff’s bed. I found that funny but then again perhaps my mind had been as tired as my brain was. Sometime in the night, Sheriff must have slept on the covers opposite me because when I woke up there was a large person size dent on the overside.  
Though there were no nightmares, I was still exhausted. That was the Fabulous Doc Hudson Hornet for you tired… And not…. Not a racer. There had been no nightmares but there was one now. The panic washed over me again. It left me terrified.  
After the worst of it had passed I knew I couldn’t stay here. Standing up, I left Sheriff’s bed.  
I found him making coffees in the kitchen. Daylight streamed through the wide window and tattooed his face. This place was white and mostly clean. Sheriff had a paintbrush tucked behind his ear.  
“Mornin’ road wreck,” He said, walking over, he handed the coffee over to me. I loved the smell of it in my hands, mostly because that was how Sheriff smelt, too. I took a sip.  
“Mornin’ babe,” I replied, “This is beautiful. I mean not as beautiful as me but-,” My voice drowned away. Yet, Sheriff was still smiling. God bless him, he even laughed.  
Taking the paintbrush from where it lay behind his ear, I was surprised when I didn't see any paint on his cheek, he began fiddling with it in his hands.  
“You don’t have to stay here if you don't want to?” He asked.  
I raised an eyebrow, “You want me to stay in the Cozy Cone? I can do that, sweetie. It's nice.”  
Sheriff shock his head, “No, you idiot,” He said, “I mean- You don’t have to stay in Route 66. I’m sorry I forced you here.”  
Which lead to this, “Forced me? No. I wanted to come,” I put the coffee down. A tear burst in the corner of my eye as I thought that Sheriff might ask me to leave, “What is this about?”  
Sherriff’s hands trailed to his gun, “Gosh darn it,” He swore. In a normal circumstance that might have scared me but the way he said it without looking at me, the way his hands trailed slowly to his gun not quickly, told me that he was angry at himself, not me.  
“Babe,” I told him, reaching my hand out, “You haven't done anything wrong.”  
He took hold of my hand but didn’t look up at me, “I mean- All your life, Doc, everybody's known your Fabulous. I mean, look at you, you're beautiful and confident and inspiring and… Kind. You’d want better than a town in the middle of nowhere,” He bit his lip, “You’d want someone better than me. Compared to them I’m just a small-town sheriff with a gun and anger issues. Compared to them I’m nothing."  
Too my surprise, and Sheriff’s too, I only laughed, “Them?” I asked, “Sheriff, babe. Are we talking about the same people? My lot? The arrogant assholes I slunk from. The fucking idiots who told me I was h-history,” My voice broke on the last word. Tears threatening to rise up, i pushed them down, "Compared to them you’re everything. I couldn't ask for anything else.”  
The expression on Sheriff’s face was pure shock. He stared at me, in a daze. His coffee forgotten. He could find nothing to say to my unredeemable kindliness. It felt like a victory to be able to leave a man who is so strong and beautiful, yes, and calming and kind, speechless.  
If only to break the silence, "Could I stay?” I asked.  
When Sheriff nodded, we both returned to our drinks. We drunk in silence for a while until it was over and I had decided that I would, "I'll see if I can have that room in the Cozy Cone again.”  
Sheriff shock his head, "You don't have too," he stumbled.  
Me: "Don't have too, what?"  
Sheriff: “Stay in the Cozy Cone. You can stay with me."  
I thought about it. He hadn’t said anything about the nightmares. He hadn't said anything about how big a task the act of loving, caring for me was. So I simply shock my head.  
“I'll see if I can have the room in the Cozy Cone," I repeated.


	2. Would you like to run away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> \- Depression  
> _ Self h***  
> _ Alcohol ab***  
> _ Ch**d abus*

SALLY CARRERA  
I sit under the boughs of the willow tree. It’s cool shade laps around my form. I like it here. The shade is not something that can be store-brought but rather comes to everyone who sits here regardless of age, wealth or race. That’s how I think the world should be.  
I don’t think it should be like this…  
My friend Kate approaches me. She has long brown hair tucked into her ponytail. A crop top and a short plaid shirt. I’m waiting here for her because she’s invited me to a party and because I know my parents would hate it if I didn’t go. I’m waiting here for her even though I know she’s not a real friend. I see the way she looks at me when she thinks I can’t see her. Her eyes are so greedy. Her words behind my back are greedy, too, ‘Sally Carrera, huh? What a money laundering bitch,’ I understand it, though, to make friends with me, is to suddenly have money, ‘She even smells of money.’  
Kate’s there, right in front of me, when I look up. She seems impatient, bothered that I didn’t notice her sooner, but as she notices my eyes on her, those looks change. It melts into diluted kindness.  
“Do you have money for a cigarette?” She asks.  
I almost don’t give it to her. Yet, somehow my hands still trial to my pockets. The notes come out.  
“Here,” I smile.  
“You ready for the party?” She says, “With your money, we’ll be able to buy so many drinks,” She laughs. On the outside, I join her.  
She drives me to the party.  
It happens in a fancy inn. There’s a cendaliar hanging above us and filling the room in golden light. People laugh around me. Glasses of champagne clinking together. My friends? Strike up small conversation. Flipping the channels from makeup to hair to lovers to the weather to cars…  
It should be enough to talk and laugh with them as I do. It should be enough just to pretend that this is the life I have always wanted. To pretend that I am loved. But it isn’t. Because when they have had enough they all walk out, arm in arm together. They don’t tell me their going, just leave with whispers then shouts and the closing of the door. I sit alone. My straw blonde hair frames my face as I slowly sip at the last of the champagne. A waiter in a black tuxedo passes me the bill. 

That afternoon, I’m at home sitting on my bed, which I haven’t deserved when the phone, which I hardly want to call mine, vibrates loudly on my bedside table. Slowly, I etch towards it.  
Another one of my friends is calling. Their names Alex and they’re asking for… Never mind what they’re asking for… The point is they’re asking and I don’t have the energy to give.  
“Come on,” They say, when I tell them I’m busy, “We’re friends.”  
I want to shout at them. If we’re so friendly, I want to ask, how come you never talk to me about anything over than money? Instead, I simply say, “I’m busy,” and my hand trailing up to the hang up button, slowly, press it. I throw my cracked phone onto the ground and bury my face in the pillow. The whole of my heart is begging it to stop. Just get out, Sally Carrera, it screams, but my mind tells me to stay.  
Heaving myself up, I draw the sleeves of my blue sweater over my wrist to hide away a secret. It’s not an ugly secret, see, it’s just a reminder of how broken I am inside. If anything, it should be a sign to get help but there is nowhere in all the world’s museums that I think I can turn.  
It’s with a deep breath that I step over the threshold.  
In the white hall, my mother stands staring up at a painting of our family. She’s wearing a long black dress. Makeup prettily suits her face. Layers of it.  
“Hi, sweetie,” She says.  
“Hi, Mum,” I respond, “Where’s Dad?”  
In the halls light, my mum shivers. She seems to withdraw parts of herself back into the shadows. Suddenly, I know why she’s here, looking up at painting which she has never payed any attention to before, “He’s drinking, isn’t he?”  
She nods. There’s fear in her eyes when, hurriedly she changes the subject, “I heard you were talking to a person on the phone. Are you going to hang out with them today?”  
I respond, “I told them I was busy,” at the same time as Dad replies, “Get me another drink, won’t you, Delilah?” I look up to find that he’s standing right before me. His reddened eyes are narrowed from shock. He hasn’t washed his hair or his hands. Both of them are dirty.  
“What did you say?” He asks. I wince as I smell his breath, “Your busy, huh? That’s funny because I can’t see you doing anything. You know, Sally, we gave you money. It’s the only reason why you’re in the place that you are today. The least you could do is show us a little respect. You should value your friends more. When you’re trying to make a successful living, you’ll need them,” His voice is calm but it’s the presence of peace here, of all places, that finally makes me break.  
“Maybe I want friends that are there for more than just success and money? Maybe I want to be loved? I know you gave me money. I know it’s the only reason why I’m standing here today but, you know what else I know that I don’t want that. I want to make my own life,” I didn’t realise it had happened but my voice had raised. Tears shone in the corners of my eyes.  
“You ungrateful shit,” Are all the word’s that come out of my Father’s lips.  
“Fucking Jesus, Sally,” As he steps closer. His fist is clenched and shaking. I can’t run away from his violence. His fist slams against my cheek. Hard. I can feel my legs about to crumble but I fight to keep standing, “Jesus, Sally,” He says again, turning away, “Work you're shit out.”  
“He’s right, Sal,” My mother whispers. In reality, her words do not come with violence. In reality, it still feels like she has hit me too. She follows my father out.  
I, Sally Carrera, could be Muse, would be Muse, stare out at the empty hall. Some part of me wants to walk back in there, to tell them I forgive them. After all, it was just one punch and he was drunk, but that’s not the truth of it. The truth is that this isn’t the first time. The truth is that it’s happened before, it keeps happening and I don’t want it to happen again.  
Placing my hand on the white wall, I lean against it and begin to cry. 

I accept the next party invitation after that, if only to prevent the violence.  
It’s starts the same as the first.  
There’s so so much gold. It cakes both the place that the party is held at and my form as I move around it. Gold, I’m still just that.  
It ends the same, too.  
I’m still left alone. Leaning against the balcony in the dead of the night and sipping slowly at a glass of white wine. I wore high heels to the party and a pretty blue suit. No one can see that in the dark. They simply see a girl, resting her head on her hands as tears fall down her cheeks. ‘She’s lost her lover,’ one might say, ‘She’s heartbroken,’ might the other. Only one of them would be right. I was heartbroken but in a different sense of the world then they could imagine.  
As soon as the champagne is finished, I have to throw it over the balcony so as to prevent the glass from touching my skin again. I look out at the open road just to feel… Something. It’s night so I can’t really see what’s around the road. It’s just one black streak stretching into the distance. The people driving on it are alive. Lights twinkle there. They’re in the cars headlights as they pass. In the streetlamp that bends over the pavement. In the stars and moon above. Each of these lights are burning a different type of hope. Yet, that hope doesn’t seem happy… It’s sad. God, what a heartbroken glow.  
I turn away. Drawing my jacket tighter across my shoulders and crossing my arms around my chest, I get off the balcony and leave for home. 

It’s late when I reach home. My drunken hands reach up and lightly turn the golden knob. When I step inside, I know that Mother and Father are asleep for everything is dark around me. There’s a kind of calm in the night that I can only barely reach.  
My feet are quite on the cold floor as I make my way into my room and turn on the shower. I don’t turn it up to full blast. Instead, I stand in the quite downpour. The water bears a heavy weight over my bones. For what can hardly be called the first time, my heart yells at me to get out. As a result of the wine, the voice in my mind is almost silent.  
With every beat of my heart, with every drop of the water, there is this:  
Why don’t you run away?  
Throwing the tap off, I stepped out of the shower. I stare at my reflection in the golden mirror. White blonde hair. Round face. Bright blue lips. Moving my hand up, I trace the line of my cheeks, “Money,” my mind says, “Maybe something more,” adds my heart. A warm white towel meets my body. I use it to dry myself, wrap my hair in it in the last minute. I can hardly bear the sight of my suit on the floor. How damaged it is. It still smokes of wine and one of my friends cigarettes. Because I hate it so much, I do not touch it. Instead, I simply walk into my room, throw on my pajamas and throw a cat onesie over me. The onesie doesn’t smell of wine and cigarettes. It smells of tea.  
Walking out, I lay myself down on my bed, grabbing the TV controls from my bedside table, I turn it on. I can't bear flicking through the channels so instead I stand up. I open the CD closet with a tired hand. Theres's one disk that’s been pushed away in the corner, collecting dust. Drawing my hand over it, I stare at the case. My god, it’s a graffic designers worst nightmare. For some reason whoever has designed it has chosen navy blue as the background colour. Written on it are the words, ‘Piston Cup 1951,’ and then on the back, under the special features section, ‘Featuring an interview an inclusive interview from the winner; The Fabulous Hudson Hornet.’  
“Huh,” I say, “Let’s see how Fabulous you really are.”  
After placing the disk into the CD player, I crawl into bed. I sit on it with my legs outstretched and crossed over before clicking play. The screen went black.  
When it came to colour again, an interviewer stood on a cobbled road. She held the microphone with an air of perfection, waiting for the winner to approach. The man who, eventually, came towards her was tall. Swinging off his racing helmet, he revealed dark skin, dreadlocked hair and elegant cheekbones and eyebrows. He wore a navy blue racing suit with the number 51 displayed on it. Upon seeing the interviewer, he smiled brightly.  
“That was a great race today,” the interviewers said. They had curly blonde hair and countless freckles.  
The Fabulous Hudson Hornet’s smile did not fade, “Thanks, darling,” He responded.  
“Can I ask you a few questions?” The interviewer added, not waiting for a response before they continued, “What does racing feel like?”  
Hud: “Winning… Or?”  
And the interviewer, “In general, sir.”  
The Fabulous Hudson Hornet didn’t hesisate. The words he spoke seemed threaded into his mind. Yet, all though they may have been recited, they did not sound fake, “It feels like this… Everything I have today, everything I am, I’ve deserved it. I’ve worked my way up and I’m going to continue working. That’s what racing is, you know. It’s not just the competition or the money. It’s going out there every day and proving yourself. Proving that your more than you or anyone else, thought you could be… That your fabolous. That’s what I tell all the folks out there, go out there and be Fabalous. This is your life. Don’t let anyone else control it.”  
The screen flashed back to the menu. I didn’t turn it off I just stood there staring.  
My heart thrummed loudly in my chest, only now it was differerent. Now it was a lot simplier. It only said, ‘Leave.’ Over and over again, ‘leave.’ I told myself that I would do something about that if I woke up the next morning and found that it was still there. Closing my eyes, I rested my head against the pillow and attempted to sleep. 

My sleep was rough and disturbed. I woke up early the next morning. Only an hour ago, the sun had risen in the sky. My heart still thrummed the way it had last night. The single word, over and over again, til’ I decided that I would do as I had promised. I would leave. Heaving myself up out of bed, I drew a gold-coloured bag out of my wardrobe. I used to use it when travelling with my family, to Athens, to Paris, to Tokyo, now I would use it for one last trip… Away.  
Working quickly, with a similar kind of buzz as comes with intoxication, I took down two blue suits, folding them up I placed them in my bag. The rest of my clothes were chosen out of blind luck. A knitted blue sweater went into the bag. A pair of white gloves already falling apart. Once I had taken all the clothes I needed from my wardrobe, turning around to gaze at my onesie (It was created to represent a grey kitten with a grey tummy, little lines on the side and tiny grey ears), I shrugged, picking it up I folded it nicely and placed it on the top of my bag. There was a toiletries bag too. Toothbrush, toothpaste and a hair brush. The last thing a bottle of water. Sitting down, I zipped the bag up.  
My parents were still asleep, somewhere in the house. Not knowing where I was going. They would be glad when they woke up, I told myself. There was no need for a note. No need to call my friends. Sally Carrera, that ungrateful pile of money, would be gone and no-one would know where she went or how to find her. A certain kind of magic lingered in that possibility.  
Walking through the halls, taking in everything for the last time, I opened the door and walked through the glowing green lawn to my car. The blue Porsche stood alone. It seemed ironic that this would be the last thing I saw before leaving home, something wealthy, rich, alone. Throwing my bag in the back, I threw myself into the front seat and, just like that, began to drive.  
I didn’t know where I was going. Whether the road takes me, I supposed. Away.  
It was just that: Closing my eyes and leaving everything behind. The open road a range of possibilities behind me. The signs pointing to places I had never been too. Outside of my window, I could see people. Some alive. Truly alive. Laughing as they drove their way through life. Singing to songs. Yet, there were people still who I know wanted to get away. I knew those faces because they were my own and, god, it surprised me to see them. It made me realise that there were only two kinds of people in life… The coming and the going. You just had to know which one you were.  
On I drove.  
Til’ the world turned black around me. It became lit up with lights whose hope suddenly didn’t feel hollow. Instead, it was full as the moon above me.  
Til’ my hands felt sore from holding.  
TIl’ the cold washed over me and I began to be unable to feel my pulse. There were fewer lights but in the lights that did shine I could see the blue that flushed through my skin. My hands shaking whilst they clasped the wheel.  
Til’ I broke down.  
I placed my foot harder on the accelerator but it would not work.  
No.  
I slammed my hand on the steering wheel but nothing happened.  
No.  
It was over.  
No.  
No.  
No.  
Feeling exhaustion grow over me, I feel asleep. 

SARGE  
The blue Porsche skidded through the town, until it stopped, that’s all you need to know.  
I stared out at the girl who sat there.  
Watched as she leaned her head against the car and, closing her eyes, fell asleep. This wouldn’t do, I thought to myself. She couldn’t stay there. No, she could stay in the town but she couldn’t stay in that gosh damn car freezing her whole body for no reason I could think of.  
Throwing the door of my house open, I walked in. Filmore slept with his body stretched out over our bed. His hands held his pillow up to his chest, “Awaken, soldier,” I grunted, throwing the curtain open for dramatic effect. The amount of sunlight that leaked into the room was barely enough to wake Filmore up. He turned over in bed, deliberately ignoring me.  
Yet, as I added, “There’s a girl on the road,” His eyes finally opened wide. He heaved himself up. His beard and hair were mess. His pyjamas, like all his other clothes, were rainbow and oversized, “Hold it a second, bro,” He whispered, “A girl? Are ya sure?”  
“Well I sure ain’t hullicainting it,” Came my only response. It was with that reassurance that Filmore stood up. Taking my hand in his, we walked outside together. Sure enough the blue Porsche still sat in the middle of the road. The overhead light that the girl had on filled the room with a cream tinge. I could see how her head rested perfectly on her hand. The sleeves of her blue sweater did not accurately cover her wrists but that was not a thing I would ever speak to anybody but her about.  
“Stand back, soldier,” I told Filmore. The words I used were left over from my army years. It was funny how, even though I had long left that life behind, parts of it would still always stay, “I’m going to open the door. Go get the others,” I watched with a smile as Filmore left. Opening the door, the girl sleeping there felt a little like magic. How had she come at this time when the town was so desperately in need of company?  
“I apoligise,” I told her, frankly. Placing one hand underneath her legs and one behind her back, I lifted her out of the car. She weighed hardly anything in my arms. A feather that must have fallen so far away from it’s bird. Because she was still cold, I held her a little tighter, hoping that my warmth, if I had any in my soul which I am telling you I do not but if, would seep into her form. Because there was nowhere for her to go, I held her until the others came. 

Filmore woke up the town easily. The fact that not many of us, not Sheriff, not Doc, not Flo, not I, completely slept must have contributed to that fact. They all came running. Stopping only when they saw me there, standing under the traffic lights that hang over the entrance of the town, with the girl sleeping lightly in my arms.  
They stood, staring, like a row of soldiers on this battlefield of a town. Red rubbed his bleary eyes with his fist. Luigi and Guido stared up together. Guido had managed to throw on a blue dress that cast an air of half-dressed elegance over them. Luigi only wore a yellow dressing gown with the ribbon pulled tight. Then there was Flo. Neat, that was all that could be used to describe her. At the end of the row stood Sheriff and his rookie boyfriend who had moved into the town just weeks before. One wondered if they had slept for they still looked the same as they had the day before. Filmore came in late, running hard and fast to catch up with the group.  
The traffic light flickering green, orange, red, over again, danced upon their skin.  
““Does anyone here know first aid?” I asked. My voice caught in the wind. It interwined itself through the night sky and the stars above.  
Doc stepped forward from the line. His jacket and dark skin gleamed under these lights. Deep brown eyes searched mine.  
“I do,” He said, casually. I woudn’t have doubted him. There was no room for that, still, the Sheriff managed to find space. I suspected he always would.  
“Really, rookie,” He asked. All of straggly brownish blonde hair, stained white shirt, suspenders.  
The ex-racer frowned. Shrugging, “Come off it,” He moved towards the girl.  
“Can you bring her into the Cozy Cone?” He asked.  
I smiled. She was a feather. It was easy to bring her there. Although the others followed closely behind, they let Doc open the door. I brought her into the reception and had her placed onto the couch. I was as gentle as I could be. Observers may even say that I placed her down as if she were a butterfly and, I, scared I would break her. I would say that there was neither method nor elegance. Indisputable, however, was the fact that the girl lay there. Her blonde hair fanned out over the curves of the blue couch. Her skin blended in just a little too much with the blue.  
“Babe, what’s the problem?” Doc asked.  
I turned towards him. My hands were crossed over my muscular shoulders. As I no longer held the girl in them, I was free to look as intimidating as i pleased.  
“She’s cold,” I replied, “Nah, it ain’t just cold. Borderline hypothermia, soldier.”  
Doc ran a hand through his black dreadlocked hair, “The first thing we should do is take her wet clothes off,” He replied, calmly. Like he had said it a million times before.  
“Right,” I replied, “Should you do that or…”  
Him: Biting his lip. Shaking his head gently, he walked towards the door and looked out at the surrounding crowd. His eyes caught up with Sheriff’s for just a second. There was worry in Sheriff’s eyes, not just for the girl but also for Doc. An anxiety which meant that somewhere in his chest his heart beat horribly out of place. Doc nodded quickly, before anyone could see, and turned his attention to Flo, “Flo, babe,” He said, “You’re needed.”  
It was unclear whether the clothes that Flo wore were her nightclothes or dayclothes. Both of them were neat and nicely cut. Her afro bounced as she made her way towards the door.  
“What is it?” She said.  
Out of the gaze of the other citizens of the quiet town of Route 66, it’s shops and windows lit only by the flashing traffic light, Doc said, “We need to take her wet clothes off. It’s probably less of an invasion of privacy if you do it.”  
Flo smiled, “Of course.”  
Doc turned to wait outside. His toe tapping agitatedly as he leaned his tall dark form against the wall of the Cozy Cone motel. The yellow signs of the Cozy Cone, not lit up, hang around him. 

FLO  
Both Sarge and Doc had left the room leaving me alone with the girl. Not to prize myself but I thought as though it was a good choice to have me do it instead of him. Good of him too worry about someone else’s privacy. I’d make sure to congratulate him on that afterwards if Sheriff had not already done so.  
The girl lay lightly on the couch. Her blue eyelids did not slip open as I reached out to unbotton her shirt. It was a nice white shirt, dirty on the sides, though. Crinkled because she had slept it. Black on white, I slowly undid one button after the next. I placed the shirt aside before glancing at the rest of her. A knife glistened on the table. Either Doc or Sarge must have left it there, having known that I would need to cut some of her clothes off. “Iʼm sorry, sweetie,” I said, before walking over, clasping the knife and returning. Itʼs a shame to ruin her nice clothes but what kind of idiot cherishes products over peoples lives. Because itʼs for a reason, I donʼt think sheʼd mind.  
I work tilʼ I can cast her clothes aside. The girl is wearing only her undergarments. It is because of that that I can see little scars snaking down her pale wrist. Some are faded, white, white stars, some look quite new. I wonder if anybody else in town has seen them but then I know that there is no point in asking. Looking down at her, i promised that I would not talk about this with anybody but her. Pain, and how you deal with it, is nobodies business but your own.  
Walking outside, I find Doc in the same position as I left him in. He looks anxious to be let in and without asking steps up to me. Attempting to get through. I place my hands on his shoulders. Sheʼs still lying there. There isnʼt a single blanket to cover her half- naked form. Lightly I whisper, “Blankets, sweetheart?” Doc thinks of that is criticism, readies himself to take it up as an insult but stops. I know that, half looking at me, half remembering, he gathers that it is not right. It takes so much effort that by the end of the process he has almost forgotten what I said anyway, “Blankets. Thanks Doc,” I repeat. He turns around. Looks at the crowd around him, clearing his throat he asks, “Does any one have a shit ton of blankets I- we can borrow.” In the crowd, Filmore raises his hand. The sleeve of his rainbow shirt slides down to reveal a small and simple black tattoo, “I do.” It makes sense. I know Filmore and I are the only two people to really sleep around here. I also know that when Filmore wants something he takes a lot of it and asks questions later. That kind of behaviour has got him in trouble a few times.“Can you get them please, babe?” Doc asks. Itʼs the please for me. Itʼs the please for Sheriff. Itʼs the please for the town.“Sure thing, man,” Filmore turns around and fiddling with one of his many braids turns back into the house. The man quickly returns with what he came for. The blankets look exactly like what he would have. Their brown but with fluffy ripples and on the side is a rainbow. Heʼs also swung a light  
jacket over his dark shoulders. All of his braids are now hanging down his back. As always, his small beard and moustache are perfect and slim. He hands the blankets over to me. I take them gracefully. Placing one over Our Angelʼs sleeping form, the blankets covers all the skin that could have been showing. I push it up around the edges of her skin to allow more warmth in. In turn, I pull up the corner so that it runs diagonally across her cheek. Itʼs only then that I tell Doc to come in.

DOC  
I work with Flo to lay more blankets on top of the girlʼs sleeping form. Flo teaches me how to tuck it in around her body instead of lying it flat. She places her hands on mine, “Itʼs like this, hun.” She does what she wants me to do. On the next blanket, I  
copy her.When we are finished, Our Angel is all snuggled up on the couch with four blankets shrouding her. Flo looks over at her. There are lines around her lips and eyebrows. I know that she wants to do her best for the girl. I know that she cares about her, instantly, ruthlessly, I admire that. Catching my eye, she slowly nods. She lets herself look away from the sleeping girl. She has other things to do, she reminds herself, “Iʼll get her some new clothes,” she adresses, “Come get me if she wakes.”My response, “Yes maʼam,” is met with quite but vividly smiling laughter.I lay more blankets on top of the girlʼs sleeping form til' she is swarmed in them.  
The curves of her form are barely visible underneath. So thick is the cover of blankets.  
The next thing I know I have to do is check her pulse. Hypothermia is a serious thing. You can get it quickly and once you’ve got it that shit can. Kill.  
Reaching forward, my finger brushed against her wrist. I wouldn’t have done so if it was not a life or death scenario. Because it was, my hands searched for her pulse. Finally, I found it.  
The girl’s heart thrummed softly against the tip of my finger. Thud. Thud. Thud. Went her heart underneath. It was quite. The skin that my fingers touched was ever so slightly warm. Yet, I could tell that it’s pattern was normal for now. When it slowed, there would be trouble.  
I didn’t know how long I stayed there, crouched beside the short blonde haired pale skinned princess, my dreadlocks hanging over my face, the light gleaming on my dark chocolate cheeks, but it must have been a long time, thirty mintues? An hour?, because before I knew it a knock on the door interupted my concentration.  
“Come in,” I whispered. Although i didn’t know who the person was, I trusted the town enough to believe that whoever it was wouldn’t hurt her. She was wrapped up and harmless as a dove.  
Behind me, the door creaked open. Pale morning light streamed in through the crack. A tall pale stranger appeared. His brown hair is ruffled and sticks up randomly. It’s soft enough to make me drawn my hand through it. Too late, I realise that the stranger standing there is, infact, Sheriff. Flo has not returned so it feels odd to see him there. He holds two coffees in his hands. His fingers perfectly wrapped around the plastic cups.  
“I told the others to try and get some sleep,” He told me, closing the door behind him with his foot. He made the movement look agile.  
I turned to face him. For a second, I risked my finger slipping away from the girl’s pulse.  
“How late is it?” I asked, “Where’s Flo?”  
Sheriff moved closer. He placed the coffees down on the old reception desk of the Cozy Cone. A book lay on that brown table. It’s pages opened with a ribbon slipped in the middle. It hadn’t been used in a while by anybody except for me. My name was scrawled in two times on the pages, in a handwriting that constantly said, ‘I don’t care.’  
The Sheriff smirked, “One question at a time, rookie,” But he answered them anyway, “It’s about four in the morning. The last time I saw Flo she was running around, still looking for clothes that the girl could wear. I think she’s doing a whole, ‘Welcome to Route 66,’ survival pack,” I smiled. It was just like Flo to do something like that. She was always looking after everyone, making sure that they felt welcome. Your not a God, I thought again, you’re not a racer. Show kindness like she does. It was enough to make me want to cry. I adverted my eyes from Sheriff’s gaze.  
Luckily Sheriff didn’t see that or he wouldn’t have asked the next question, “What are you doing?”  
This was something I knew about. I wasn’t afriad to say it either, “I’m checking her pulse. Hypothermia’s a beast and a son of a bitch. It can slow down your pulse so much so that you end up dying. So far her pulse has remained normal, that’s good. I hope she wakes up like that but if it becomes slower I have to be alert. Too slow and I might have to do CPR which-,” My tongue stumbled. This feeling of uselessness wasn’t something I had ever experienced before my crash. Although it was becoming easier to bare, it still made me feel weird, different, strange.  
Sheriff seemed to catch my drift, however, for he said, “I can perform CPR, if it comes to that.”  
My already angled eyebrows furrowed, “You can?”  
Sheriff shrugged, “Police training,” He said. I noticed then that his gun gleamed near the coffee. He had taken it in to see the girl and me. I didn’t like to consider what they might mean. I simply nodded, “I would normally say fuck the police,” I said calmly, “But at least they know CPR when you need it.”  
Suddenly, Sheriff tensed. In his anxiousness, he responded, “I don’t like the police system, either. That’s part of the reason that I wanted to be painter rather than a sheriff but, you know, once my father died that wasn’t really an option. I know all cops are bastards. Sometimes when I think about my father I imagine what he must have been like out in the real world. He wasn’t working in an isolated town like I am he was tied into the middle of it. I wonder what he would think if he looked down and saw that his son was openly gay. Would he like what he saw?” Sheriff’s words were quick. They rushed over each other and tangled up.  
I thought the sentiment unnecessary. God, he didn’t need to try and convince me that he wasn’t racist or homophobic. Yet, i tried to understand his reasons for doing so. His anxiousness led him to perceive himself easily judged, “That’s nice to know, babe.” I said, out loud, looking down at the girl who lay peacefully on the couch, “But it’s not necessary right now.”  
Sheriff cleared his throat, “Right,” He said, turning to his side, he pointed to the coffee, “I brought coffee,” He said, “Would you like it?”  
“No donuts?”  
He shock his head.  
My lips turned up into a smile. I laughed, “Alright then, love. I’ll take the coffee.”  
As Sheriff passed it over, my hands reached out to take it. I took a sip before placing it down beside me. Fumbling, I found the girl’s pulse again. Returned to my original position.  
“Are you going to stay there the whole night?”  
Without realising what I was doing, I shrugged, “At least until she wakes up.”  
Sheriff’s laugh was full of bewilderment. it was sunlight in the sky. It was every strand of colour in a painting.  
“What?” I asked.  
“Before you came here, you didn’t care about anybody, rookie, now look at you, staying awake to ensure she doesn’t die in her sleep.”  
A cloud of puzzlement flamed in the corner of my eyes, “Is that bad?”  
“Punk,” Sheriff chocked, “I’m proud of you.”  
I smiled. Looking around, i realised that this felt good, better than walking through life caring about nobody but myself, better than only getting what I wanted. It filled with a purpose. It made me feel like I was wanted here. That was an amazing feeling, irreplaceable with anything else. If that thought suprised me, which it did, then it suprised me even more when I opened my mouth and the truth came out, “I like it here. I like helping her.”  
Although his eyes told me that, in reality, he was trying not to cry, the only expression on his face was a palbable scowl, “You delinquent road hazard asshole punk,” He said. When I looked up, the frown broke away and faded into a smile, “I like you like this.”  
Bending down, he reached out for my free hand. I let him place one kiss on my scarred knuckle, one lower down on my wrist.  
“I’ll stay up with you,” He confirmed, “Until she wakes up,”  
“The whole time?” I asked.  
He sat crosslegged on the cold white floor beside the couch. His eyes wandered over the girl. Like the rest of the town, he was worried about her. With gratutidue to his mental illness, thanks anxiety!, I knew that the worry probabably effected him even more than it did everybody else. Sheriff didn’t often bode well with anything out of place, “The whole time,” He repeated, then, “Drink your damn coffee.” 

Although I did not know it, I fell asleep there. I leant my hand against my fist, closed my eyes and found that that was all it took- Goodbye light! Hello to a darker world. Falling asleep, my finger slid away from the figure's pulse. Our touch receded as the heavens put space between us. I must have slept soundly, soundlessly, for I did not wake as Sheriff moved closer to my side. Clasping the hand of the person, he put his finger on their pulse. It was him, not me, who was checking.  
Still, it was me who was startled the most when the sleeper woke.  
It was a gentle wake, at first. Their eyes slid open. Murmuring something in their sleep, turning over. Terrible, or so the poets would say, at second. I could see, nay hear, the figure's fear as their heart beat in time with mine. Intertwined. Entangled. There was even the thud of Sheriff's to match. God, let us into your light.  
"I-," The newcomer stumbled, "I'm not supposed to be here. Where am I?"  
Too my surprise, Sheriff was the first to regain alertness. To steady his shaking heart so it lay where it ought to have sat all along, "Route 66," He said calmly but the person didn't seem to like his response. It was all of this: Them, shaking their head. Closing their eyes. They looked frightened so I told them this.  
"It's okay, babe. You're safe. I promise," They cast their eyes around the room. I felt as though they liked what they saw but then again I have never been the best at judging facial expressions. The sleeper, now awoken, breathed in, breathed out.  
"You're safe, love," I repeated if only to ground the person before me. I had seen that kind of strained panic before. It helped to repeat sentences, slow and short, as well as focusing on your breathing. It was funny how one simple breath could bring you out of your dream to a safer reality, "You're not going to die."  
The person relaxed then. Although they reminded cautious, I could see the fear shrink away from their eyes. I glanced at Sheriff and knew he had seen it too. The air's tension grew lighter.  
"Welcome back, road wreck," Sheriff mused, "Like Doc said, you're safe here. I won't hurt you," His words were so gentle I could almost not believe that it was from his mouth that they had escaped. They carried on the wind. Like birds, like butterflies, soaring high in colour.  
"I'm Doc. He/him," I introduced.  
"Sheriff. He/him."  
"What's your name and pronouns, if you're okay with me asking?"  
The newcomer looked at us intently, as if they were scanning us over, peeling back layer after layer to see if anything dangerous lay beneath. Eventually, something must have made them believe that we were safe. Perhaps, it was in Sheriff's eyes that they found what they needed- I could see a gentle care float in the corner of his iris. Perhaps, it was in my hands- Although expensive rings gleamed on a few of my fingers, the knuckles were not as elegant as they had once been. My hands were no longer clean of scars.  
Whatever it was the person's pale lips fell open,  
"Sally Carrera," She said, "She, her."  
Voice! That was what I thought when I heard it first. This was a voice that would never dare to curse. Unlike Sheriff or mine, there was nothing rough about it. You could lose yourself purely in the way that she spoke. Somehow, it reminded me of light.  
"I'm not supposed to be here," She added, "I was- I was driving...."  
"You broke down," came Sheriff's reply, "One of the citizens here, Sarge his name is, found you. We've been attempting to make sure your tiny form doesn't bend over and succumb to hypothermia,"  
Despite the fact that she had just been told that she had been, seconds ago, on death's doorstep, the girl smiled. It was a small smile, yet, still it was warm. Too me, it seemed to come too soon. We hadn't done anything that I thought deserved a smile such as that- One that lit my heart on fire and made me think oh life! What reckless joy you seep?  
"Thank you," She whispered.  
With that, she turned to look around again. She glanced at the cream walls that loomed on either side of her. She glanced at the wooden desk. The book open and the cups of finished coffee by Sheriff and I's sides. She looked at the sea of blankets that sorounded her. The perfectly blue, perfectly soft, couch she lay on.  
"I'm not home," She said out loud. She hadn't meant too but the words slipped out anyways. They carried with them a second meaning I very much wanted to understand, although I thought I never would. She was laughing then. The smile that broke seemed to wide for the restrictions of her face. Her laughter rang out around us.  
Neither Sheriff or I could note her true emotions, so well hidden where they that I doubted that they would even become clear in Flo's eyes, still, I thought that I knew for certain that she was alive. So so alive. There was not an inch of death about her.


	3. If You Ask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> Depression   
> S*lf h*rm  
> Pan*c Att*cks

SALLY   
Minutes later, I sat outside. The sunlight was hot against my skin, as if Apollo had drawn it just a little too close to the ground, still, although I could feel my skin burning, burning, burning, I was reluctant to move. This place was beautiful. A smooth black road ran along the middle of the town. Shops, cream not gold, spread along the strip. I wondered if the people here loved them, and by the look of their elegant displays, at the petrol station, the tire shop and the clothe shop, I knew that they did. Even so, there was something sad about this town. If you looked closely, you could see how much it had faded away. Like everything did in time. Walking and rising and then fading, swapping out for a different soul like the sun dies for the moon. There was something empty about the love that it was given because it could not give it back. Mortal, that was what everything here was. The sunlight, the open hearts, were naught but attempted mutability. Suddenly, looking again, all I saw was grey. Grey like I had seen in Californa.... And I had thought running away would make any difference.   
It was then that an adult appeared. They had earth brown skin. Curly black hair frizzed up into an afro. Some dark strands fell to lick against their forehead. They looked golden in the sun.   
"Hey. " They said. They wore light blue ripped jeans and a pink crop top, revealing a slim form underneath. A leather jacket hang over their shoulders.   
"Mind if I sit with you, hon?"  
I scanned them up and down, looked straight into their eyes and saw the same light in them that had reflected in the eyes of the two who had been with me when I woke. There was a gentleness, to it, a hope and a care that I had not found in the eyes of any of my friends at Californa. God forbid it to have lingered in the eyes of my Father.   
Before I could look away, "You're staring, babe," the person said. I smiled. It was the smile I always used. People never saw your emotions if you hid them behind a smile. A frown was good but, then again, people normally asked you why you were like that. If the sun was out, it meant the day would be good and nobody said a thing.   
"Sorry," I fumbled, "I'm-," The words lay somewhere beyond my reach.   
I was unable to grasp them til' the person responded, "Unsure if I'm safe?" I nodded and heard them continue, "I would be too. Sometimes you walk into a town and find that all anybody can do is hate. It's not like that here. Everybody who lives here has learnt to practise simple love. Except for Doc but- He's learning," I remembered Doc. He had looked too wealthy to be here. Somehow, I wondered if he was like me. I wanted to get to know him but knew that if you took too many pieces of a clockwork puzzle apart you only found that it would no longer work.   
"I'm Flo. She/her," The woman added, "What's your name and pronouns? It's alright if you don't share, hon."   
Foolishly, I didn't hesitate to respond, "Sally Carrera. She, her. About your original question, you can sit with me if you want."   
Flo did so. It was was only then that I realised she was holding a suitcase. It was small with round corners. It's cream brown colour blended in with that of the rest of this town.   
She placed it down in front of me, "I made this for you," She admitted.   
I looked down it. My eyebrows furrowing, "The suitcase?"   
Flo laughed. Her laughter, like her soul, was kind, "No, sweetie. I mean, kind of, but what's inside it is more important," Reaching down, she placed her hand over the golden lock, "It opens by itself. You don't need a password," Her fingers worked to open it for me.   
The case opened up like a lover's hands to reveal it's secrets inside.   
Lying on top was a blue t-shirt, carefully folded over. Beside that lay two pairs of long fuzzy grey socks and, in the corner, something was wrapped in tin foil. Although I smiled, I still shock my head.   
I didn't deserve this, I thought, which led to, "I can't accept this," For the first time, I thought of home. It was painful there but maybe that, rather than all this kindness, was what I deserved, "I don't know if I'll stay," I added.   
Flo bit her lip. It was the way she moved, the gleam in her eyes, that allowed me to understand. Flo thought it would be fitting if I stayed. She hated when everything wasn't perfect so if I left, if I run all the way back home or just kept running away, it would sadden her.  
"Please," she whispered, "It's yours. You've just had the shock of your life and- Among other things, I made it because you deserve it."   
It was that that made me give in.   
Guilt still lay oh so heavy in my heart as I picked up the blue t-shirt. I hold it out in front of me and smiled...   
Oh god, I really smiled. Sun! Will you stop burning so bright? The shirt had a cheap cut. It was plain blue in colour with words streaking across it's fabric. 'I love Radiator Springs,' It said. The heart, symbolic for the word love, was big and blue in the middle. Even though I knew I didn't deserve it, not really, even though guilt still tore at my heart, holding it up I fell instantly in love.   
"I know Lizzie's old merch is probably not what you want but it was the only thing I could find that I thought you would fit in. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to, babe. I'll understand that."  
I shock my head. How could she think that I wouldn't want to wear it when it was this- It was cheap and it was plain and it was loved. It felt right in my hands, better than anything anyone else had given me, better than all the diamonds and the pretty blue clothes- This.   
"It's perfect," I found myself laughing, at nothing in particular, "I'm going to wear it forever," And I meant it.   
With steady hands, I rifled through everything else she had given me. Folding back the tin foil, I found a ton of tea bags underneath. It felt strange that the woman I sat with now could seem to know me better than anyone else.   
My excitement lost, my seretonin lost somewhere in the chasms of my heart, I stared down at what lay at the bottom of the case. It was a box of bandaids. Unused and unopened. I tried not to hurry as I placed everything back into the suitcase.   
Yet, Flo must have seen my fumbling hands, my agitation and my fear- Oh god, how the fear took up so much space in my heart I did not know- for she said, "Hey, babe," I stopped. Forgetting what I was doing I stared out at her. I forgot, too, to smile and then it was over, the charade was lost. I was not alive- No, I did not feel alive. Not like the plants in summer or the morning sun. I was falling. I was wilting, so.   
"I- I saw the scars on your wrists," Flo admitted. I looked over at my hands. The hem of my sleeve didn't cover my cuts, rapidly, I drew my hands into my pockets, "I'm sorry. I wasn't going to say anything but I just thought- The bandaids. I thought it would be a more healthy alternative compared to-,"   
I cut her off, "Please," I whispered. It wasn't my voice, not soft but chocked, "I don't want your help. I-," Stopped.   
What could I say? That I didn't deserve it? That it was much harder than she thought? Whatever I said, I knew she would never be able to understand it. The average heart was simply not built with the capacity for understanding Sally Carrera. I didn't want her to keep sitting there. No one, nowhere was supposed to see me like this, "I'm so sorry but please leave," I spluttered. Curse how the words felt against my tongue.   
Flo stood up. She looked troubled but then, of course, she did. Her eyes and lips were filled with the desperate need for understanding, yet, the failure to do the very same.   
"Okay, sweetie," she whispered, "If you need anything just come to me, yeah? Keep the suitcase."   
With that, she turned away.   
Watching her go, I buried my hands through my hair. I opened my mouth to scream, yet, when it came it was soundless. No life clung to my shouts. I wished I hadn't said what I had to Flo. She had been so kind. But once the words were out in the air, they could not be torn back down.   
Alone, I did not cry. There was too much pain for me to weep. 

SALLY  
I sat there until a figure stepped out from around teh corner of an old building. Although, I had not been able to cry, I wiped my hand over my face as if I could.   
I had enver seen this person before.   
They looked tall and strong. They're curly black hair had been shaved. They're right eyebrow: slit. The sunlight danced golden upon their skin. The person held their hand outstretched. If I was to come any closer, I would have seen bird seeds glimmer on there palm. As the tall, dark, angry figure stood, little blue jays came out from their hiding places to eat the seeds out of their palm. They were tiny creatures. Delicate. Beautiful. I loved the colours of their feathers, bright blue, to darker, to white.   
It was only when the birds had left that the figure turned towards me. They saw me, sitting there. The concrete blending in with the grey of my soul. They must have also seen my exhaustion for I saw something in them shift and become even gentler.   
I asked and they replied.   
Sarge. He, him.   
Then, he decided to walk closer. He did not sit next to me, however. He kept to where he was, in the shadows at the back of the building, "Afternoon soldier," This was his way of pushing on me the belief that he understood, "I didn't feel anything from the 70's to the 80's."   
It caught me off guard. The statement directed itself so painfully to my emotions. Yet, I would not let anger or sadness beguile me, instead, smile Sally(!), I remembered, smile(!)"I saw you feeding birds," I said. Though, it wasn't just about the practise of feeding the birds that made me doubt his belief but the smile he had worn whilst doing it. Nothing in my right mind could convince me that that hadn't been real.   
"Fuck yeah. It's not the 70's or 80's now is it? This town set me right. Ain't it funny how a little bit of love can change you?"   
I closed my eyes. If it was as easy as that, I thought, I wouldn't still be here. Like Flo, I wanted him to go away, I wanted to know,   
"How did you do it?" I asked.   
"Filmore," Came the reply. It was stubborn rather than loving, as though there relationship wasn't simply an, 'I love you,' but an 'I love you. Fuck off.'   
Still, "Oh."Because that was it then.... There was so saving Sally Carrera. Everybody thought it was so easy but how could it be when you hadn't deserved anything you had in life? It was impossible that I would ever deserve anybody like Filmore. Impossible that I would ever have anyone who would make me laugh, who would keep my company in the cold and keep away the shadows,   
A shocked, "No," Slipped out. I hadn't meant it too.   
"He came to me one day in the summer," Sarge continued, as though I was still smiling, which if I thought about it I probably still was. Performantively, "Got me to open up about myself. I hated him for it. Soldier, this is embarrassing for me too say... But there is a lot of love out there. Enough for everyone,"   
I shock my head.   
Sarge took that in but he seemed determined to say what he needed before he left.   
I didn't know how he knew so much about me. Had Flo talked to him about me. Had he....   
Once again, Sarge's voice cut through my thoughts, "Feel free to hate this," He continued, "But what I'm tyrna say here is we can get you help if you want, soldier," Somehow I knew that the 'we' referred to the members of the town. They were so familar to each other that they didn't need to be called by name, not singular but plural, "You don't have to say yes. You don't have to say no. Only know that that option is there if you want it?"   
Resting my chin on my knees, I ran thin hands through my blonde hair. The strands were knotted after days of not washing. I could feel how tired my eyes were. If I had asked my hands to shake, they would have done so. I didn't want to live like this- Nay, this wasn't living. I wanted Sarge to go but more importantly I wanted my own feelings to leave. Should I get help?  
"Yes."   
Oh no.   
Those words met the winds and I knew that something would change because of it. This was absolutely terrifying.   
But Sarge was continuing talking and somehow there was comfort in his minimal reaction. His way of acting like this wouldn't change at all how I was perceived,   
"Would you mind if I talked to the people here? Wouldn't tell 'em any specifics just that you need help."   
I had gone too far to give up now. 'Oh no' was everywhere,   
"Okay." 

DOC  
Sheriff and I are both tired after staying up all night to ensure Sally survived. I heard Sheriff stiffle a yawn. He didn't normally get the best of sleeps but staying up all night wasn't the best for any of us. I was unsure if I would be able to make it upstairs or if I would just fall asleep in the middle of the hallway. Blinking and then feeling my eyes slowly closing til' I crumbled on the floor.   
Recklessly, I said,   
"We can sleep on the couch together,"   
Sheriff's facial expression remains solemn, "Really, rookie?" He asks.   
"You're tired, I'm tired, sweetie. We both know it."   
Then, something miraclous happens, Sheriff smiles. He let's out a tired laugh. It's not as smooth as mine but, god, if it isn't more beautiful. I could listen to it like it was a song,   
"That's a win for one couch AU's," He says. I don't even know why he knows what alternative realities are. I don't even want to know, "Fine, you delinquent road hazard money laundering imbecile," He swears.   
I laugh. My laugh isn't as nice as Sheriff's but I don't think he cares,   
"Knew you'd warm up to me, babe,"   
He's the first to lie down on the couch. His eyes close seemingly before he hits the surface. His brown hair lies in curls. One strand licks against his forehead. I lay down next to him. Taking his hand in mine to create extra space. My dreadlocks fall elegantly over my face. I know my eyeliner will get smudged because of this but that doesn't matter, everything is peaceful, everything is quite.   
We awake to a door opening and closing.   
Sheriff startles at first, sitting up straight. He looks around frantically for his gun. if he hadn't been so tired this morning, I knew that he would never have let it fall out of reach of his hands. He's panicked and angry and I want to help him I do but I've seen this kind of panic on myself before and I know that they are times when you don't want to be touched or told what to do. Instead, I only look up at him. It is almost as though I can feel him seize the gentleness in my eyes, take it out and replace his anger and fear with it. He eases beside me.   
Only, after the ordeal has passed, do I look up.   
Sarge stands there. He casts a slight shadow over the room. He's still wearing the same black clothes. There is little light in the room but it reflects back in the deep brown of his eyes. He doesn't look startled, just waits. I stand up,   
"Soldier," He announces like he's always known me.   
"Hi, babe," I reply.  
"Are you okay?" He adds. It's like this in Route 66. Sheriff wasn't lying when he told me that folks care about each other here. I wish caring could come that easily to me,   
"Just tired."   
He turns his head so that he's looking at Sheriff, rather than me. Sheriff's standing next to a table. He's fitting his gun back into his belt. It takes him a while to respond but when he does, "He's fine," He says.   
Me: "Third person, nifty, babe."   
Him: "Don't push it road wreck."   
Me and Sarge lock eyes again. I have never seen Sarge wear anything but the one facial expression. It doesn't change now,  
"I need to talk to you about something."   
Something about the way he says it means that I know what he wants to talk about even before the rest of the words leave his lips.   
"Sally?" I ask.   
"Flo's settling her in. I think she'll stay with her for a while before she decides-,"   
I find it interesting, funny, even, my reaction to the girl who came here last night, woke up this morning. I've been around people all my life. The messy, the bossy, the complicated. People who drink themselves to death and people who don't drink at all. People who love hard and people who didn't care until they turned up at some town and fell in love with it.... That's me. But somehow this girl feels different to everyone else. It feels like she could be more.   
"I'm glad she's doing well," I say and it's even more interesting to find that I mean it.   
"She's not really, though," Comes Sarge's response and I'm thrown off guard,   
"What happened?"   
"Soldier's having mental health problems,"  
"Like what?"   
Too my surprise, I find that whilst my eyes were pinned on Sarge, Sheriff has moved behind me. it isn't with a violence that he reacts to my rudeness, though I think parts of it makes him angry, but with a soft,   
"Rookie."   
He knows I'm trying. I know I accidently stepped out of line.   
"I'm sorry," I'm facing Sarge but the words are for both of them. i can see Sheriff smiling like he's proud of me, "What do you want me to do?"   
"i said we could help her," Sarge continues, "Do any of you know anybody who could help her more than we could?"  
I think about it. As I've said before I've been around people all my life but only one who doubles as a racer and a license therapist. It's good luck that that person would come to me despite anything.   
I nod, "I do. I'll give him a call."  
Sarge smiles, "Thank you."  
Now, i just have to find my good for nothing phone.   
______________________  
We search for it all around the Cozy Cone Motel.  
Eventually, Sheriff straightens up from where he was crouching near my bed. My small black phone fits neatly in his rough hands. One strand of brown hair flicks against his forehead as he turns the phone over. God, it's a puzzle of cracks. A muesum of white lines crafted not for the purpose of art but simply because I've dropped it far to many times,   
"You've cracked this up, rookie," He says. I stand across at the back of the room. My, 'Punks Respect Pronouns' jacket is drawn over an oversized hoodie with the sleeves hanging down. I walk over to him when I see it. Sure enough, it is my phone. As I've already told you, it's extremely cracked but I don't think there's anything to do about that. I tell Sheriff as much.   
"Hmmm," He offers, "You could put it in rice."   
I laugh quietly. My head ever so slightly tilted back. I know Sheriff loves the look of my smile. The laughter is even more dreamy because of how tired we both are.   
"Do you want me to...." Sheriff continues, his eyes flickering from the phone over to me, the phone, me and again. He doesn't say exactly what he's thinking. Nay, it's only by looking into his eyes that I understand that if he's asking if I want to be alone while I take the call.   
To my surprise, I nod.   
He leaves the room and closes the door behind him.  
The bed that i sit on is small. The blankets around it are white, still tightly tucked under the mattress. It makes it hard to move at night but god does it make it warmer. A multitude of pillows are pressed against the bed head. A map of Route 66 hangs in a golden frame in the corner of the room. It's beautiful. Truly.   
Picking up my phone, I attempt to glide my fingers over the cracks. Hoping that I will be able to call the King before the phone crashes and it becomes unusable. Little black lines are streaking over the screen as I make the way to my contacts. There's a phone number for my Mother and Father somewhere amongst the list but I don't call them. Even if I had the time, I wouldn't have the energy. Finding the contact labelled, 'His Majesty,' I click on it and press call.  
It shouldn't have suprised me when the King picked it up instantly. Yes, I wouldn't have done the same but the King is different to me. He's always been different to the others on the race track and that's not only because of the blue suit he always insists on wearing,   
He answers the phone with a, "Hello. This is the King speaking,"   
And I, because I have never formalised a greeting for anything apart from face-to-face interviews reply, "Hi, babe." By the turns and curves of my voice, he must admittedly know it's me. An unknown shuffling sound makes The King's next words a little harder to hear,   
"Doc! What's wrong?"   
"Nothing," I reply. I hear another scuffle, then a thud and the sound of a lock being clicked closed, "Uhh sweetie," I say, "Are you packing?"   
The noises stop. If I was there, I would have seen the King halt, placing his hands into his pockets, "You call me in the middle of the day. I have to assume that you're in trouble. Are you hurt?"   
"I'm fine," I insist, because he didn't seem to get the memo last time, "How are you?"   
Silence on the other side of the call. A moments hesitation.  
"Hud," Carries a different layer to it. It comes off light and gentle. It doesn't carry in the air bur rather dances with it. There's a strangeness to that,   
"What?"   
"I believe that's the first time you've asked me how I am," In that second, I come to a sudden conclusion that what made the King's voice strange was pride. How it clung to every note! It had thrown me undoubtedly off guard.  
The King continues, "I'm good. I'm getting ready-," He stops short. Suddenly, one hand of Anger and one of Fear wrap around my heart, clutching tight with dirty fingers and attempting to rip it away. Because I know, I know, he was going to tell me that he was getting ready for the next big race. A race that I would not be able to compete in because my team had given up on me. Fuck, it hurt.   
Quickly, I attempted to change the topic,   
"You might want to sit down," There's a flunk as the King sits down. I can see him there. I believe that his blonde hair would be tousled. Unlike how I sit, he would have crossed his legs perfectly underneath him, "I'm okay but there's a person in this town whose not. She needs a therapist. I was hoping you might help her," The King runs a hand through his hair.   
"This person," He asks, "Is she a friend of yours?"   
I don't hesitate, "Yes."   
The scuffle sounds again. The sounds of the King packing play in the corner of my mind,   
"You don't have to come," I say quickly, "Don't feel obliged to help her."   
But the King only answers with, "I'm coming," And I know he won't change his mind.   
God, even on our worst days, we share the same level of recklessness. His just comes in a different form. He's ready to put everything on pause, his racing, his wife, to come help me, "I'll be there tomorrow," He says, "I won't be able to stay for too long."   
"Whatever you give, I'm grateful for you, babe,"   
The same pride shows in the King's voice. If I was standing next to him, I would have been able to see a vibrant smile- so full of colour- decorating his face, "Thanks, Hud," He says, and with that his hand slips down. It's he who first hangs up on me. The line goes quiet. I place the phone down.   
Before I know exactly what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, I go to find Sheriff. 

Sheriff stands with his back against the doorway. The white shirt he's wearing has been washed. It's not nearly as crumbled as all the others. A black coat covers his shoulders. In reality, he looks quite handsome. Tight knit jaw and kissable lips and hard angles and everything. Everything.   
I stop in front of him.   
The gun is not in his hands but tucked into his belt. I can see the edges of it showing from underneath his white blouse. I didn't notice it before but there's a splash of paint on the hands,   
"How do you feel, rookie?" He asks, looking up.   
As soon as I think about how to ask the question, pain begins to rip it's way through my chest. Oh, I think. But all I say is this,   
"It's heartbreaking, actually. Did you know that lgbtqia+ youth are twice as likely to be diagnosed and treated for mental health disorders than other people? Lesbian, gay and bisexual people aged 16 and over are six times more likely to have a depressive episode. They're also three and a half times more likely to be diagnosed with anxiety. But... Babe. It doesn't stop there. Lgbtqia+ people are also way more likely to consider s*******. Sometimes that can be a result of society not accepting them, their parents not accepting them or even themselves not accepting them. Some people can find it confusing and hard to figure out their gender and sexuality identity. It's-," I trailed off. Despite my ramble, Sheriff was looking at me intently. He reflected the painting of a perfect listener. Vincent Van Gogh could not have displayed the strokes better,   
"We'll go to a Pride March or donate to a charity, then. We'll show that we support them. It won't be a lot but it might be something. But, you imbecile from road-wreck ville," His voice was softer, "How are you really feeling?"   
I bite my lip. Suddenly, I found the floor much more interesting, "Tired," I said, finally. Each of the words I drew out so that they become longer than they needed to be, "Happy that I helped her. Happy that I was able to call the King. Scared that when he comes my panic attacks will get worse. Angry at myself for not realising how much of a dickhead I was. Angry at the King for being able to race when I'm not.... Confused," God damn it, I hated those words. I hated those things, what were they called? Emotions. Why did I have to feel them everyday? I just wanted another day where I blocked myself off from it all. Life was a lot easier like that.   
Sheriff walked towards me, "Come here," He said. Despite my head's intentions, I found myself falling into his embrace. He held me, gently, in the small hotel room. He would never break me. One of his hands was pressed against the small of my back. The sunlight that radiated through him brushed against my soul too. I could smell his scent on the shirt he wore. My o my, he smelt like home,   
"You should be proud of yourself," He was whispering to me. I was calmed by his voice, even more so by the words. This felt like a dream, "You're getting so so much better. When the King comes, I'll help you through it, okay, rookie?,"   
Those words, his touch, made me forgot myself in his arms for a second, allowing myself to cry. These weren't hard sobs, instead, tears fell lightly down my cheeks. They dripped against Sheriff's shirt. Until, I realised what was happening. Until, I pushed away.   
"You shouldn't have to deal with me like this," I told Sheriff. It was a tragic thing that, although we both knew we liked each other, something prevented me from letting him help me. I was already a burden, I didn't want to be an even bigger one, "I'm sorry," With that, I turned to leave. I pulled the corners of my demin jacket closer towards my chest. I had made it through the door before Sheriff realised what had happened,   
"Doc," He called after me but I was too far away to turn back now. 

At first, I don't know where my feet are taking me. Only that I don't want to be seen by anyone. I don't want to force anyone to deal with this. Somehow, I wind up in Flo's Cafe. The sunlight dancing upon my cheek.   
Sighing, I open the door. Walking inside, I am enlightened to a pink bench. Checkered tiles cover the floor.   
Flo is standing behind the table. Her dark skin glistens in the sunlight. She's wearing the same outfit that she had when she approached Sally. Light blue ripped jeans, a blue cropped top, leather jacket. Eyeliner decorates her eyes.   
"Hi hon'," She says, "Are you looking for a drink?"   
The truth is I don't know what I'm doing here. Yet, when she offers to make me a drink I don't turn it down, "Yeah, babe. Can I have a glass of gin? You're looking gorgeous today, by the way, sweetie," Turning to look more closely at the room, I notice that Flo isn't the only person here. Sally Carrera has also taken a seat in the Cafe. She sits huddled in the corner. Wearing ripped jeans, a stretched, 'I heart Route 66,' tee and badly frayed mittens. Blonde hair sneaks out from underneath a blue beanie.   
Even though part of me feels too tired and hurt to afford the effort of caring, the other half remembers what I had told Sheriff. I liked helping her. I did. Glancing at her, I thought about being a drink for her. What would a girl like her drink? I asked myself. Recklessly, I ordered,   
"And a green tea too?"   
Flo catches my gaze at Sally and smiles. Bless her! I love to watch the smile twinkle in her eyes.   
"On it, baby," She says, "You're looking lovely, too," I watch her go. It isn't long before she comes back. Holding the drinks in her hands. She passes them both over to me. There are no questions about my choice of drink. Part of me is grateful for that.   
After paying her, I walk over to Sally. Though she does not move her head, she turns her eyes to look at me. One of her hands rests under her neck. Blonde hair pairs innocently with dimpled cheeks. I wonder if had I not been a racer and someone who was prone to displaying themselves in a way that others would only call performative, I would have noticed that the smile on her face was fake. As I was both those things, I knew that there was limited reality to her happiness.   
Still, holding the tea forward, my rings clashing with the outside of the cup- one of which is moulded out of gold-, "Hey, babe. I brought you tea," I said.  
For a second, a truer reality lingers in Sally's smile. She lets herself laugh a little,   
"How did you know?" She asked. So I had gotten it right, I couldn't help but feel at least a little bit proud of myself,   
"I guessed," At that, I swung myself into the seat next to her. Sally's gentle fingers wrapped around the tea cup. She took a small sip. On the other side of the table, I drunk with a feriousisity as though trying to distract myself from my emotions or something like that.   
"Your rich?" Sally finally says to me. The pink flush that has risen in her cheeks makes me doubt whether she meant to say that. I think about telling her about the unfair distribution of wealth countries face, about the stigmas involving the homeless and how they are unfair, about the monopoly of the highest 1% of people, lastly about how we should most certainly eat the rich, and, yes, that includes me for main course if you want, but catch myself before those words can leave my lips. Building myself up, to say a single,   
"Filthy," Sally is still staring at me. If I had asked her what she was looking for, I would have been told that she thought I could be similar to her. Because I was rich and had run away to a small town, just like her. Had we both been comfortable enough to unravel our stories, we would have found that they linked together in many different ways,   
"Did you run away?" Sally asks, digging in but only lightly.   
I adjust the rings on my hands, "In a way," is my only response.   
Foolishly, I attempt to change the subject and settle on this,   
"You'll be meeting with a therapist tomorrow,"  
Sally's eyes burst with colour as she fights the urge to fold in on herself. Her shoulders slumping and her head bending down. She eventually wins. The faked smile remains clasped on her face like a wall that will not fall,   
"Thank you," She whispers.   
Which leads to this, "Babe, you don't have to be grateful" Because her, 'thank you,' was only partly the truth. It was not yet all of it, "Mental health's a son of a bitch," I know because I feel it too. It's in my frequent panic attacks and post traumatic stress disorder. That's one of the reasons why the rim of this damnable glass is pressing, cold, against my lips, "But we're going to help with it,"   
In the first silence, I want to ask Sally why she's not responding. Maybe, ask her why she's hurt but what I have to remember is that I have to treat people the way I want to be treated. I am human and so is she. I should understand why Sally doesn't want to answer because I wouldn't want to either.   
Changing the topic again, the next subject I fall upon is better. Upgrade three thousand, "Wait, babe? Has any one taken you on a tour of this town yet?"   
Sally shakes her head, "I've seen a little," she responds. I frown. Most of the time she must have been copped up here. Flo unable to take her because she has to attend to the bar. Filmore, Sarge, Red, Luigi and Guido nowhere to be seen. I paint it into a joke,   
"Shame on them," Sally laughs a little. It rises into her eyes, "Come on," Outstretching my hand, I am surprised when Sally doesn't hesitate to slip her hand into mine. It is small and fragile. My touch, I think, is almost fatherly. In the corner of her eyes, her lips, in the shadows where she thinks nowhere can see it, a new emotion is shown creeping into Sally's features. A rawer kind of pain mixed with fear. She must not have hold anyone's hand like this in a long, long while.   
Smiling, I lead her out of Flo's Café.   
It isn't long before her hand slips out of mine. We walk, instead, side by side as I take her to look at all of the buildings. i show her the places where Filmore and Sarge work and live, I show her Casa Della Tires and Romane's clothing shop. In the Cozy Cone, I show her the different kind of rooms. There's something lighter about her when she stands in that place. As if she belongs there. As if she could make a home simply from it's colours. I know the tour isn't as thorough as it could be if anyone else had given it and I think I offer the right amount of apologies for that. Luckily for me, we don't see Sheriff. I don't want to have to face up to him, not just yet anyway.   
After I've shown her everything I can, we rest outside Flo's Cafe. It is getting late. We watch as the sun falls from the sky, replaced by her majesty, the moon. I bid Sally goodbye. 

SHERIFF  
I haven't seen Doc the whole day. I can't help but feel a little bit angrier with myself. I feel like it's my fault that he pushed away. Maybe, if I had said something different he would have stayed. Maybe, I had overstepped his boundaries with the hug. I didn't know. I knew that the night found me, as usual, not wanting to sleep. Instead of sleeping, I picked up a canvas, a few paintbrushes and a light and walked outside.   
Outside, the cool wind rushed against my cheek. The world seemed naked to my touch. Not only were the citizens of this Town sleeping, at least, most of them, but it seemed that the town itself had come to rest. Laying it's weary head down on the clouds, it became silent, relaxed. There was nothing that could scare you here. The scent of petrichor lingered in the air.   
I had always wanted to paint the town at night. To try my best to capture it's colours. I might as well do it now. Adjusting my canvas, so that it stood on the land, I uncapped a jar of cream paint as well as one of black. Agile hands folded white sleeves up. I leant in, lips slowly parted, eyes almost closed.   
Before my paintbrush could met the canvas, however, I saw her there.   
Sally had not moved from the place where Doc had left her. She stood in the dim light that still radiated from Flo's Cafe. The dull blue washing over her form. Her legs were spread over the curb. Tired head leant against bruised cheeks. She looked gentle there, as though she could be a painters muse, yet so out of place. She should not have been sitting in the cold of the streets. She should have been sleeping.   
Coming around the back to greet her would have scared the living jesus out of both Doc and I so I don't do it to Sally either. Instead, I make sure that I approach her front on. Her blurred eyes seem to take note of her form but only in a half-scribbled word that says, 'People here. Maybe I don't know.'   
"Good night," I whisper. Not because she's going to sleep but because it's actually blooming night.   
The note becomes clearer, 'People here. Yes.' And she startles a little bit in the realisation. When she looks at me, she seems frightened. That's okay. I know that I'm not the easiest figure to look at. It's not only because of the gun that I hold in my far too ready hands but also because of the glint of anger in my eyes,   
"I didn't realise," She stutters, then adds as though she believes this more than anything else, "The night's beautiful."   
"It is."   
Then her eyes dance past my form. They fall on the canvas I have left behind. I have placed the brushes against the easel but I only strongly hope that everything about the organisation will stay where it is. Blooming moons, if the easel slides away....  
"Were you painting it?" Sally's question interrupts my thoughts, "That's amazing. I thought you were just a police officer," I shake my head.   
"Hell, how do you know I'm a police officer?" Is the first thing I say.   
"They call you Sheriff," Sally responds as if that immediately means that I work in the police department. And, then, oh, of course, she would think that,   
"Sage is my real name," I tell her in a hushed voice. It's been a long time since I said my true name, "Don't tell Doc, though. To answer your last question, you funky bastard, yes I was painting the night," My words are falling apart as I become a little less sure that what I'm doing or saying is right, "I mean the town... But the town at night... So really, the night I guess... Darn it,"   
"It's okay," Sally responds, "So you're not really a police officer, then, you're a painter?"   
I shrug, "I work as this town's Sheriff," I reply, "Though I'm shit at it. And i just dally in painting. I'm not really good at that either,"   
"Come on," Sally says like I've insulted her, "I think you're paintings would look beautiful."   
"You haven't seen them," I know that these conversation might go on forever. Especially with someone like her, my strongest ideology is that I am nothing, I think that she would hold onto the hope that other people could matter. Simply for a change of topic, I ask, "What was your job?"   
Anger riles through me as she adverts her gaze. Instantly, I think i've done something wrong. That I'm a fool, worse, an idiot. The weight of the gun becomes heavier. I contain that anger, making sure that Sally hasn't noticed my reaction. The word that falls from her lips in response to my question is heavier than anything she has said before,   
"Lawyer,"   
Damn, I think. She might be smart. Might even be the smartest girl this town has ever had the good fortune to stumble upon but i don't prod her any further. I don't need to talk needlessly about her job and the world. Instead, I ask,   
"Do you want to watch me paint?"   
Sally smiles, "I'd love to," She says and it actually sounds like she would. Even if it wouldn't make her instantly happy, it might calm her or help her fall asleep. I would take her inside again if that happened. I was sure that I could carry her.   
Outstretching a hand, I helped Sally up.   
She comes to sit down on the other side of the road. She looks cold there. Her hands clasped around her shoulders for extra warmth. Because I don't want here getting hypothermia on me all over again, I take my coat off,  
"Okay?" I ask.   
As Sally nods, I slip a coat over her shoulders. It's oversized with sleeves too massively big for her tiny arms. She looks cute, pocket-sized and drowning. I hope that the extra fabric will add to the warmth.   
In time, I return to my position near the canvas.   
Sally rests her chin back on her fist. She fixates her gaze on me but, although it would normally, tonight the stare doesn't throw me off. There is something gentle about the way she watches me. She doesn't have any expectations on what my painting would look like. She isn't looking for anything impressive so her expectations won't be crushed. She simply wants to see me paint and... Breathe. I like that.   
Yes! I am an artist posed ready to make a stroke that would either make or break the artwork. Sally watches as I push back my hair so that it won't fall over my face. My eyes scan the small town. Placing a dash of paint on the end of my brush, I touch the brush tip against the paper. The first stroke makes a cream river across white.   
________________________

THE KING  
If I was anybody but the King I might not have shown up when I said I would but because I was him, unmistakably him, I came to Route 66 in the early morning. I drove a different car than my Plymouth Superbird 360. It's still not in the best condition but that's not why I didn't take it. I knew that the sight of the blue car might be triggering to Hud. I wanted to avoid hurting him and, this time, it came with no personal risk of my own.   
My black car parks on the curb of a place called the Cozy Cone Motel. This Town is small. It's not the kind of place I would expect hot shot Piston Cup racers to end up in but then again I suppose Doc isn't a racer anymore. I could appreciate the colour scheme, though. Those glorious creams that blended in to the landscape. Sun kissed and loved hard. Mornings here would be beautiful. O, how they would feel safe.   
I run my hand through blonde touseled hair and fix the sleeves of my blue suit before stepping out of the car.   
The front door of the Cozy Cone flings open and Hud stands in the limelight. He is shrouded by the sun. It adds to the feeling of a sleepy and safe morning. He's wearing a warm flannel jacket with a beanie. His hands are decorated with one single gold ring. His face is where he is worked the most on his appearance. That eyeliner and that eyeshadow blend together like a sunset.   
I walk up the steps towards him. For a second, I think the lad might shy away. If he starts shaking, I know I'll leave him be. It's what all the young un's, and the old un's too, deserve. I know post traumatic stress disorder when I see it and he's made heavy by it. Yet, he seems to find the strength enough to wrap his hands around me. We hug each other tight. If onlookers walked past they might report the sitting as strange. We no longer fitted too well together. Yes, we both had the same history but apart from that we're entirely different creatures. Doc kind of blends in to the setting. While, I stand out with my expensive suit and too-much-time-spent-worrying-about hair.   
Eventually, we fall apart. Doc's eyes seem a little red from having to forgo sleep in response to nightmares.   
"Thanks for coming, sweetie," He says.   
To which I respond, "I'd do anything for a friend, Hud."   
"Oh, I know babe."   
We look each other over for a little bit longer. Me, noticing all the differences in Hud and Hud, noticing how much I.... Haven't changed. That's okay, though. We're both moving at our own pace and Hud just had change thrown on him,  
"Where is she?"   
He steps aside. He's a few inches taller than me and the shadow he casts on the wall has the possibility to be daunting, "You best come inside," I do so. He leads me up the stairs of the Cozy Cone Motel. Entering what I suppose is his room. In it, there's a small bed. A world map on one wall. The other opens up with a large window displaying the colours of this town. Hud's left a bottle of whisky on the table near his bed. Two people sit on the white bed. The first looks kind of intimidating. They've got curly brown hair and the lines of their face and jaw are all hard angels. Despite the harshness of their form, however, splatters of paint decorate their hands and their cheek. The person next to them must have been between eighteen and nineteen. They're tiny. Blonde eye frames their face with sparkling blue eyes. They wear a thick black scarf and a brown vintage jacket. The sleeves are left to roll over their wrists. Underneath, they are wearing a white crop top. They look up at me, nursing a cup of tea in their hands.   
"This is Sheriff. He, him. And Sally. She, her," Hud introduces me to the both of them.   
"Hi," I tell them both. I see Sheriff smile yet adjust his sitting position as if he's still a little awkward. The girl, Sally, grins at me. It covers a whole mess of emotions. If I was able to look past it, I would have seen a shit ton of fear but, alas, the mask was so well practised that it hid away everything even from a licensed therapist like myself.   
"Kid," I tell her, "You okay with this?"   
I know many people like her. From the young folks I teach to the racers, so I'm not surprised when her smile doesn't fade,   
"Ready," she responds. Her voice is soft and gentle. Standing up, she places the cup of tea on the table near Hud's bed. There's a connection between Hud and her. Not fully formed, I can see it in the way Hud's eyes look at her, he's still waiting for approval, but enough, considering the circumstances, for Sally's hand to find it's way into his. I saw Hud give it a squeeze.   
"It'll be okay," He whispers. Though he'll tell himself he's unreadable, I've known Hud long enough to pick up pieces of emotions on his voice, the way he says it, the look in his eyes reflects that he's not just saying it for her but also for himself. Hud needs it to be okay. Bless him. He needs this to be alright.   
Sally follows me into a different room of the Motel. Most of the place is empty so it's not hard to find a room. We sit down on a half-lit timber table. A miniature chandelier stands over the table and there's a fridge and some of those things you'll only ever find in a hotel, the presentation of cheap food you can't eat without paying for, in the corner. Sally adjusts her coat around her shoulders. She's a person who will try hard to pretend everything is alright even when attending therapy.   
"How are you?" I ask.   
"Good," Sally lies. I know it's a lie by how quickly she adverts her eyes.   
"How are you, really? I won't hurt you. I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to help you,"   
Those words make a flash of darkness fall over Sally's eyes. Some kind of pain flickers there but then is put out like a light. She doesn't change her answer,   
"Good."   
I decide to change the subject,   
"We're going to take a few tests. Is that okay?"   
When Sally whispers a small, "Okay, " I take the tests out. She's made to fill in a small questionnaire about her thoughts and behaviours. I read it over whilst she's doing a second one.   
Eventually, I diagnose her with moderate to severe depression.  
Depression. She sits there, smile faded. Shadows of emotion clouding dilluted blue eyes. Depression.   
The session concludes with me holding up a case of anti-depressants. Seretonin and noradrenalin reuptake inhibitors. SNRIs. For multiple reasons, I believe they're the right ones for Sally to take.   
"Read the bottle before you take these," I instruct here, "They may have some side effects but they should help you a lot. Tell me if they don't, okay, kid? Do you want me to give them to anybody so that they can keep them safe?"   
I see the question cloud Sally's eyes. She's wondering about what she could say. Even though I saw the start of a connection between Hud and her, I don't want to give these over to Hud. Kid can't even keep himself in check. I'll tell him about it, though, just so that he can remind her. I don't know about the other one. Sheriff? Sally says neither of those names, however. Either she doesn't trust anybody but herself or she knows she can handle it for she says simply,   
"It's okay," I pass the bottle over to her before standing up. Picking my blazer up from where it lay over the side of the chair, I lay it back over my shoulders. It fits snug around my form.   
"Okay," I reply, "Thank you for speaking to me today. I'm proud of you. Stay safe, kid. Would you like to see me again?"   
"Yeah," Sally says. I smile a little too wide. Hud was right... This kid is great, "Can you come back next week?"   
I had races all through out the next week. Nevertheless, I nodded. Races weren't all my life was made out of. It was just work,   
"I'll come," I say and with that I make to leave. Sally watched me go.


End file.
